One Day I'll Fly Away
by Stanleylouis
Summary: Satine and Christian escape from the Moulin Rouge, only to have more obstacles fall in their path. Satine's sickness, their state of life, and a war to end all others threaten to tear the two apart. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1: The Decision

**Hello everyone! Stanleylouis here. Second Moulin Rouge story! I hope you enjoy it!**

_Chapter 1: The Decision_

_Satine_

_I sit on my bed, staring at the red carpet, not taking it in. My wild elephant home, so festive and uplifting usually, is now somehow dismal and sad. It's as if its décor is just a cover up, a mask, to hide my true feelings. Just like how elderly women wore bright red lipstick and overly powdered cheeks to hide their old age, it seemed as if I had my beautifully vibrant room because I lived in such sad circumstances, having to pay with my body for everything I needed._

You're dying, Satine…

_I can't take it in. Me? Dying? Impossible. I had been so focused on getting through with the Duke and Christian that I couldn't even think about me being sick. I mean, I had been feeling terrible for the past few weeks, but I hadn't been able to work it out as far as… me dying._

_I had just been talking to Harold in my dressing room. I had entered it with such high hopes, dreams of leaving with Christian, running away from the world, taking everyone by surprise. We would have finally won, even if the Duke did chase after us, even if our lives were in constant danger. It didn't matter, because we were together._

_But now… What was the point in escaping now? I was dying. The time I would have gotten to spent with Christian free would never be worth the pain it would cause Christian when I died and left him alone. He would have the Duke after him for no reason, and without me._

_My thoughts drifted to Christian again. Christian… His face gleaming with determination. His dark hair tousled and in his face as his bright eyes peered through to me. I couldn't bear being without him. Putting my face in my hands, I began to sob, rocking back and forth on the edge of my bed. Why now? I'm too young to die. I know it's a cliché, but it was true. I had finally gotten to _live _with Christian, and now I had to leave? _

_Tears are running through my fingers as I think about how much I'll hurt Christian. He didn't deserve this. He saved me from my miserable life, and all I could do was die and leave him alone?_

_No. I had to do as Harold said, and tell Christian that I didn't love him anymore. It would hurt him, yes, and it would kill me, but I didn't have much to live for anyway. I would tell him._

_But… An image popped into my head of Christian getting the news. I winced even though it hadn't happened yet, for I could tell what would happen. Christian, so ready and willing for love, would be damaged forever from my betrayal. He would come to me anyway, for he loved me more than life itself._

_He loved me, and needed my love. If it was the one thing I could give Christian before I died, than I would. I had received so much happiness in the past weeks, so much joy, just because of him. I owed him everything. With these simple thoughts, I made up my mind._

I'm sorry, Harold, _I thought to myself as I finished packing the bag that I had brought up with me, slamming it shut with a resounding thunk, and looking at my room one last time before closing the door. _I have to do this.

_End of Chapter One_

**I know, short chapter, and there's not much to go on from here. But the next chapter will have more action in it. Tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2: The Escape

**I was just reading over this story, and I realized that this chapter wasn't out! Sorry! :) Here it is.**

Chapter 2: The Escape

Christian

Satine had left my room to go pack almost 3 hours ago. Where was she? I looked out the window to see the first rays of dawn shine weakly in through my window, and with it came a stabbing feel of dread. What if she changed her mind?...

My garet door slams open, and when I turn around I see Satine rush in and throw her arms around me. She's not crying, like before, but just happy to see me, burrowing into my neck and breathing deeply. I hold her close, relief washing over me, because she's here, near me. Looking down, I see a few bags of luggage that had fallen on the floor.

"Oh, Christian… I love you." She kisses me softly, while I hold her face between my hands. My heart is bursting with the love that I feel towards her.

"I love you, too." I laugh into her cheeks as I weave my fingers through her thick, auburn hair. I love the feel of it.

"I'm ready." She steps back to pick up her suitcases, a determined look in her eyes. I wanted to ask her if she was sure about this, if she really wanted to leave, but I couldn't stand it if she said no. Instead, I just reached out and held her to me as I picked up my few possessions and left my Paris garret forever.

~*~

It was nearly 7:00 in the morning when we finally got to the train station. We had needed to sneak out of my building, move quickly and unsuspiciously across town, and find our way through the streets and alleyways to the station. Now, as we waited for the train to come, we were resting on a bench outside, under an overhang and in the shadows, so that few people could see us. It had been a long night for Satine, and she was resting now, her head in my lap, hair spread out all over my coat. I couldn't help my stroke her hair and look at her face with wondering eyes. This perfect creature was mine now? We would run away together, and live out our life? It sounded too good to be true, and I kissed her gently on the forehead, too happy for words.

Suddenly, Satine's body began to spasm as she coughed violently in her sleep, her perfect red lips spread apart as she gasped for air. Terror took over my heart. What was happening?

"Satine!" I shook her back and forth, and she opened her eyes, still coughing. I'm horrified to see how frail she looks, her eyes red and weary, her skin pale and covered in sweat. Still, she smiles at me, a heartbreakingly frail smile.

"I'm sorry, Christian. I'm just not feeling well lately." Her hand reaches up and holds my cheek softly, as I look desperately down at her. Her face was so sad, as if she knew something I didn't…

"Satine, what-" At that moment, I hear a whistle, and look up to see the steam and front car of our train pulling into the station. Satine is already getting up from the bench, looking just as tired as when she had first lain there.

"Come on, Christian. The train's here." She wearily picks up her luggage, hands her ticket to the conductor, and walks up the metal steps to the waiting train cars. I stand there for a moment in the smoke of the train, looking at where Satine had disappeared in the bustling crowd, then went in after her, finding an empty seat where we could both rest and think.

_End of Chapter 2_


	3. Chapter 3: Finding Happiness

**The next chapter's out! Sorry for the wait, but I haven't gotten a review in a while, and it took too long waiting…**

Chapter 3: Finding Happiness

_Satine_

_Christian guides me to a compartment on the train, opening the door for me and putting my suitcases on the rack above. I feel so tired. I'd been going on the happiness from leaving with Christian for a while, but now the sadness is back. I'm still dying, and even though I'm with Christian, there's nothing he or I can do about it. _

_Why waste this time together, though? This is why I left with him: I still have love left to give. I want this, and Christian will be happy, as long as I'm with him. Still, I can't help a sense of melancholy from taking over my mind._

_Christian sits down next to me just as the train lurches to a start. Looking out of the window, I can see through the smoke of the train to the station and buildings around it, the dark sky above. It looks like it's going to rain, and it's drab, sad almost, the scene of Montmartre as the train chugs away. My last image of the place. The thought pops into my head, and I feel a single twinge of sadness at the thought, but I let it pass, falling back with the smoke from the train._

_~*~_

_As the train moves on, first through the city, then through the outskirts, and finally through country sides, Christian's reassuring arm holds me to him, and I gratefully lean in, letting him enfold me._

_"Are you happy?" I murmur, snuggling into his side._

_"The happiest man in the world." I look up to see him smiling his sweetest smile, the one that can't stop me smiling too, and happiness rushes to my head. It'll be alright. Even if I am dying, we're together. I'm so happy that I made the decision of leaving with Christian, because I don't know how I would have spent my last days without him._

_Outside the train, a crash of thunder echoes through the sky, and when I look out I see a flash of lightning. Usually, I think of lightning as a sign of foreboding, but now it could only mean that something beautiful was to come after the storm. As rain patters down the window, I put my pale hand up against the glass, and smile._

_~*~_

Christian

Satine is asleep again, and I'm happy for her. When she sleeps, her entire face looses the stress lines it's accumulated through the past months. She's like a child once more, carefree in her dreams. The only thing that shows her stress is the cough that subdues her shallow breathing.

She's sick. I knew that months ago, but I thought it would go away. She only got worse. Whatever treatment she's tried, it isn't working. Which means…

No, I won't think of this now. She's with me, away from the Moulin Rouge, and happy. This can be explained when she wakes up. I wipe her damp forehead with my handkerchief.

I have to focus on where we're going to go now.

The first step is finding a place to live. We're taking a train to the East, to Paris. From there, we can go anywhere: to the East, to Luxembourg; up to London; down to Spain or Portugal; even to the Americas. The world is at our hands, if we get to Paris.

But will we get there?

Of course we will. We're on the train and moving ever closer to Paris, away from Montmartre, away from the Duke. I couldn't stand the feeling of not being able to protect Satine, but now I can change that. Now I'll get a job, pay for Satine and I, and live out our lives normally. She can't have a job like her old one, of course, but she can find something somewhere, and I'll do a job as well, writing at night. When I get a book out, and I make a fortune off of it, (I laugh inside) then she won't have to work anymore, and she can live the life she's always wanted… With these thoughts in mind, I allow myself to close my eyes, lean my head down on top of Satine's, and nod off to sleep.

End of Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4: The Truth

**Hello everybody! Sorry about the wait for this, but I'm finishing up one of my stories now, and I've been kind of focused on that. :) Thank you reviewers!**

**Also, sorry for those people who have alerts for this story and it kept on popping up that this chapter came out! I put it out, but it didn't work! Thank you for your patience!**

_Chapter 4: The Truth_

_Satine_

_We're at Paris, finally. I feel Christian's presence beside me as I move through the crowed aisles of the train, a slight sense of claustrophobia taking over, but I push it aside. I'm almost there; hurry now, before out escape disappears._

_I'm at the door, and I look out for my first glimpse of Paris-_

_To see the Duke standing at the station, black coat billowing around him, eyes fixed on me._

_I start up with a gasp, feeling sweat on my forehead. Christian is beside me, awakened by my jerk, and his unhesitatingly trustful eyes are on me, staring at me worriedly._

_"It was just a dream." The words burst out of my mouth, and I continue on after a deep breath. "It was about… Paris. We had gotten to the station, and we were walking out the door, but he was there. The Duke, he was there. Oh, Christian…" I don't mean them to, but my eyes begin to smart up with tears._

_"Satine, it's okay, darling, it's okay…" He hugs me close, and I breathe in his scent, calming down. Of course it is. We're on the train, safe and sound._

_It's impossible for him to be there before us, don't worry. We'll be in Paris soon, and then we can go anywhere, anywhere you want, Satine." He smiles at me, and I can't help but smile too, even though inside my heart is breaking. He's so eager, ready to make a life for us, when mine is ending all too quickly. He's looking ahead, but all I can see is the bleak present, where my life can end at any moment._

_"Satine, what's the matter?" Christian's voice is startlingly serious, and I look up in surprise, aware that I'm crying again. "There's something wrong. You were so happy when we left, and you… but there's nothing to worry about, okay? I'll protect you." _

_"Christian…" I can't stand it anymore; I have to tell him. "I'm sorry… I'm dying." The words hang in the air as I look into Christian's bewildered face._

_"What? No you aren't, Satine, don't say that! We'll make it to P-Paris, and then…" _

_"No, Christian. I have consumption." It kills me to watch the horror spread over his face. I don't know how long it'll take, but… I'm dying." _

_"No." His eyes are wide and disbelieving, and he's shaking his head back and forth. "No… Satine…" He hugs me tight, and I can feel him shaking against me. I'm still crying, and I weave my fingers through his hair as he begins to sob, a horrible, real sound._

_"Satine…" My heart breaks in two at the anguish in his voice. "They can't do this. This- This can't be h-happening…" His voice breaks off, and all we can do is sit there together, hugging tight, as if that will stop us from being separated, as if this can stop the sickness from taking over my heart._

Christian

I don't know how long we stay there, hugging each other, holding the other close. I thought that the worse thing that could have happened to us was that we would be separated, but this worse, so much worse. My brain can't wrap itself around the idea of Satine dying. She's just something that's always there, will always _be _there. Whether as my lover or taunting me from the shadows, she would be beyond my reach, but _alive._

And now?

Now my mind is filled with images: of her, lying dead in my arms; of the last look of her face before the coffin door is latched shut and lowered into the cold, unforgiving ground; of her tombstone, the words blurred from my vision, flowers littering the grave, where a statue in the shape of an angel looks as if it's flying away to the heavens above…

I let out a half-sob, half-hiccup, and we're roused from our thoughts. We pull back, and I can see the same sadness in Satine's eyes as I'm feeling, of losing each other. We don't know when the sickness will take over, but it will, at one time or another. I kiss her chapped lips desperately, feeling the tears on her cheeks mix with my own.

"It's alright, Satine, we'll get through this." I try to smile while crying, holding her head in my hands. I can't lose this.

"I'll die eventually," she whispers. "We just won't have as much time together."

"Don't say that," I murmur, kissing her lips again. "We have this time. We can't waste it."

"Next stop, Paris!" We're jolted out of our thoughts by the conductor going up and down the aisles, yelling to the passengers. It seemed like only moments since we got on the train, but when I look out the window, sure enough, we're coming into a station with a huge sign proclaiming that we are in Paris.

"Come on, Satine." I give what I hope to be an encouraging smile, helping her to her feet. "You're not gone yet. We don't know when it'll c-come…" I give out a shaky sigh. "So in the meantime, let's live life, shall we?" I'm glad to see Satine give me a soft, wet chuckle.

"Let's go, then." I lead her through the train, down the stairs set out for the passengers, and to a waiting cab, purring on the curb. Opening the door for Satine, I close the door behind myself, and sit up to talk to the cab driver.

"Take us to the nearest church, please."

_End of Chapter 4_

**The next one should come out sooner. Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5: Paris

**Hello again! I'm sorry it took so long, I didn't mean it to be that way! I was bored with the story while I was working on my others, but now I have an idea of what I'll do! Thank you reviewers, you helped me update!**

_Chapter 5: Paris_

_Satine_

_"And now, with the powers invested within me, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."_

_Christian takes my chin in his hand, leans down, and kisses me. It's a bittersweet kiss, and I can feel the dried tears on his cheeks. We pull away from each other to smile, and Christian's is so heartbreakingly brave that I want to hug him to me. Instead, though, I turn to the priest who is standing in front of us, a simple Bible in his hands._

_"Thank you so much." There isn't much more to say. When I was a child and used to dream about a perfect wedding, before my job had dashed those thoughts away, I always thought of it a little differently: white dress, flowers everywhere, friends smiling at me. Instead, I'm in a cold and dim church with only the flickering candles to light my joining to Christian. Still, I can't help but smile, because we'd finally done it! Christian, my husband. The words are golden in my head, and I truly smile, because now we're linked both in love and marriage._

_After paperwork is given to us, and we give out goodbyes, we walk out of the church hand in hand. I can feel the ring on my finger as if it's bubbling fire. We had picked up cheap matching ones in a shop we had passed, plain and metal. "We can switch them out once we're settled in," Christian told me, smiling sadly. I squeeze his hand lightly now as we walk along._

_It feels so unnatural, walking down the street hand in hand like a real couple, yet natural at the same time. We were always meant to be this way. In a way, my impending death releases us, because we'll be parted soon anyway. But what about Christian… The consequences…_

_"Christian..." I turn to him, and as if we're connected by a string, he turns as well. "The Duke… What will he do to you… When I die-"_

_"Don't worry, Darling." He puts a finger over my lips. "Please don't worry. I don't really care what happens afterwards." He smiles sadly, and I can see it in his eyes: a part of him has died already._

_Suddenly, I can't stand it anymore, and I feel a raw sob burst out of me. I cover my face with my hand, willing the tears to go away. I had already cried this out. I feel Christian wrap his arms around me, but I step out of his embrace, shaking my head._

_"I'm sorry, Christian… It's just not fair!" The tears that I'm keeping back are hot, and I'm surprised to feel that anger is coursing through my veins. "It's not fair! Why did this happen, why now?" I want to hurt something, someone. I can see people on the street stare at us, but I don't care. _

_Was this what I got for spending my life selling my body to men? The consequences of my life's actions, not being able to have the thing I wish for the most in the world?_

_"Shh…" Christian has brought me close again, and his soft voice calms me like nothing else could. "It's not worth it, Satine. Let's be happy, for our time together."_

_"Yes…" I sniff back my tears, letting his words sink in. We're together now, and that's what matters. "What will be, will be." I compose myself, take his hand in mine, and smile as we begin to walk together, hand in hand._

~*~

_We stop at a café, sitting at an outside table even though everyone else is coming inside from the bitter cold. When the server comes out, she has a peeved expression on her face, for us making her come out here in this weather. _Well, you should close this area in the winter if you don't want this to happen, _I think, perfectly content in the chill breeze. _

_We order hot chocolates, and when they come out I almost sigh in happiness. A large, teacup-like mug, filled to the brim with liquid, and, balancing on the top like a cloud, a huge dollop of whipped cream, chocolate shavings sprinkled over the creaminess. She gives each of us a candy cane as well, probably left over from Christmas. _

_I had never had a hot chocolate before, and I only have Christian's word that they're delicious. Comfort drink, he says, and I take a hesitant sip from the cup, taking a bit of whipped cream as well. I yelp as the hot liquid burns my tongue, and Christian laughs, rubbing my arm._

_"Take it slowly. The whipped cream cools it down." I scoop a bit of the cream with my finger, putting it into my mouth. Instant satisfaction, with the cool, sugary stuff soothing my tongue. I unwrap my candy cane from it's plastic wrapper, stick it through the whipped cream to the hot chocolate, and pull it out, licking it to Christian's enjoyment and laughter._

_The hot chocolate is hard to drink, for me. I long for the hot chocolate, something to take away the coldness in my stomach. But when I try to get it, it just burns my throat on the way down. I still drink it, though, even though it burns._

_I laugh at Christian's milk mustache from the whipped cream. I flick specks of it with my fingers onto Christian's face. We watch small, light flakes of snow fall from the sky together. _

_Christian is the hot chocolate. I long for it, even though it hurts, but sooner or later, it's gone, and all I'm left with are dredges at the bottom. I stare at the cup for a while, than stand up with Christian as he pays and we walk away, into the snowy streets._

_End of Chapter 5_


	6. Chapter 6: Que Sera, Sera

**Hello! Yes, I got this out much quicker than last time! Just couldn't wait to give you this chapter!**

**The song in this chapter is Que Sera, Sera. French for What Will, Will. Apparently, though, the song's title is supposed to be What Will Be, Will Be, but that would be Quel Sera, Sera, right? Or something. Anyways, I might have that wrong. :D It's by Doris Day, and I don't own it.**

**Enjoy!**

_Chapter 6: Que Sera, Sera_

_The snowflakes are falling slower now, a very thin covering over the ground. Christian and I walk along together, suitcases in hand, just happy to be together._

_"Que, sera, sera…" A song pops into my head, and I sing softly, leaning into Christian. "Whatever will be, will be…"_

_Christian joins in as well, just as softly. "The future's not ours, to see…" _

_We sing together. "Que sera, sera."_

_We're passing random shoppes and cafes, not stopping at anywhere in particular. It feels nice to relax, to unwind and let the world wash over me. Every once in a while I cough into my handkerchief, and occasionally blood will be dampening the cloth when I pull back, but I let it pass. I'm with Christian. I'm with Christian, I'm with Christian, I'm with Christian. I can be satisfied with that._

_I pull the lines from the song from my memory, and I begin to sing a verse, still walking hand in hand with Christian._

_When I was just a little girl,_

_I asked my mother, what will I be?_

_We both laugh softly at this, and I go on._

_Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?_

_Here's what she said to me…_

_I look up to the sky. It's darkening, and this surprises me. The day is ending so soon? In the pit of my stomach, I know that it'll all end tonight. But then again, we were able to do something today. We escaped the Moulin Rouge, and were able to spend our day together, in happiness. We sing the chorus together, a little louder._

_**Que sera, sera…**_

_**Whatever will be, will be…**_

_**The future's not ours, to see…**_

_**Que sera, sera…**_

_**What will be, will be…  
**_

_We turn off a street, and find ourselves walking into a park, where other couples are sitting or packing up. He kisses my hand softly as I smile and sing again._

_When I was young, I fell in love,_

_I asked my sweetheart, what lies ahead?_

_Will we have rainbows, day after day?_

_Here's what my sweetheart said._

_Christian joins in again, and this time we're loud, belting it out as if we're drunk, laughing as we do._

_**Que sera sera!**_

_**Whatever will be, will be!**_

_We get some pretty odd looks from the passers-by, but we can't be bothered._

_**The futures not ours to see…**_

_**Que sera, sera!**_

_**What will be, will be…**_

_We quiet down, as I come to the last verses, and feel a lump form in my throat._

_Now I have children of my own…_

_A sunset is disappearing behind the gray horizon. I feel like the sunset is the last nail in my coffin._

_They ask their m-mother, what will I b-b-be?_

_A quiver enters my voice, and I lean my head on Christian's shoulder, my voice barely a whisper._

_Will I be handsome? Will I be rich?_

_A single tear runs down my cheek, and when I look up I see that Christian is crying softly as well, looking down at me with a watery smile. _

_I tell them tenderly…_

_The last chorus, and our voices are sweet and resigned. Our last love song together. It seems so final that I'll never do it again, and this is what gets to me, what nearly cripples me. Last song together. Last sunset. Last smile. I don't want this to end._

_**Que sera, sera…**_

_**Whatever will be, will be…**_

_We squeeze each other's hands._

_**The futures not ours, to see…**_

_We both look to the sky at the same time, to see the sun disappear from the sky, and for the night to envelope us in its grasp._

_**Que sera, sera…**_

_**What will be, will, be.**_

_It's quiet after we finish our song, empty. The last of the couples have left, and now we're alone in the park, our suitcases by our sides. In front of us is a large tree, weathered and worn. It's leaves were stripped from its branches long ago, and its roots are actually coming out of the ground, creating a little cache in the side of the tree._

_"Where do you want to stay the night?" Christian's soft voice breaks through my thoughts. Where _do _I want to stay, on my last night alive?_

_"I know I don't want to die in some stuffy motel room." I hear Christian give a sharp intake of breath, and I know that I shouldn't have been that blunt, but the thought of sleeping in a shady motel disgusted me. Instead of really answering, I just lie down next to the tree, resting my head on its chilled-hard bark. _

_"It's nice here." I close my eyes, and immediately I'm calm, calmer than I've ever been before. It's as if the tree's bark transferred tranquility into me, and I sigh, opening my eyes again to watch Christian._

_"You want to stay here?" Christian's expression is a little skeptical, but already the tiredness in my body has began to come to my head, and I know that I can't get up even if I wanted to. I'm tired, so tired…_

_Christian's looks up to the sky, probably watching for the weather. It doesn't look like it'll snow, but it still looks cold, especially as night overtakes us. "Okay, then." He opens up his suitcase, pulling out blankets and jackets, tossing them over to me. I wrap myself up in them, feeling completely relaxed. This is it, then. Taking a jacket out for himself, Christian closes the suitcases, then hides them in the roots of the tree, before coming over to me. He lies down too, pulling the blanket over him. "Although, if you don't die of consumption first, you'll probably die of hypothermia instead." Christian's stab at humor._

_I laugh slightly, snuggling into his side. He pulls me close, and I feel so warm, so secure. We're here, together. It's all that I can ask for. My coughing's still racking, but it seems almost muted. Can I die in my sleep? Please, can I be given this final mercy?_

_"I love you." Christian's words are smothered in my hair, and I turn my face up so that I can see him. He's still crying as he kisses me, and then again. My eyes slowly close from weariness, and I get my last image of him. He's smiling, holding me in his arms, kissing me a final time before closing his damp eyes as well, his dark brown hair falling in his eyes._

_"I love you too, Christian. Come… What may." I don't want to say anymore; keep it simple, sweet. Sleepiness fogs over my mind, and I sigh, letting it pull me under. Just a simple night of falling asleep in Christian's arms…_

_End of Chapter 6_

**You like it? Will she die, or will I keep her alive? Well, you WON'T KNOW until I get 10 reviews!! I mean it this time! It'll probably take a while, but I can wait… :D **

**If you know what movie Que Sera Sera is from, than say so in your review and I'll give you a preview of the next chapter! Thank you for reading! **


	7. Chapter 7: A Cold Morning

**Hello everyone! Thank you for everyone who reviewed, I really appreciated it… Although I didn't get my 10 reviews, I didn't really find it fair to all of you guys, so I decided on putting it out anyway. Hope you enjoy…**

_Chapter 7: A Cold Morning_

Christian

I can't open my eyes just yet. _Where am I? _It's cold, wherever it is. My very bones seem frozen and achy. Why am I here?

I let myself slowly come back to thinking straight, still holding onto the last moments of sleep. I can feel hard bark below me, and blankets surrounding me- and a body beside mine.

Of course; it all comes back to me: our escape, Satine's confession, our day together (had it really only been a day?) and finally our sleep, against the tree. Satine's final rest. I hadn't heard many coughs from her for the period I was awake, listening to her steady breath, to her fragile-but-still-there heartbeat. Those sounds that lulled me off to sleep.

I can't listen for her heartbeat now. It would hurt too much if it was silent.

I can feel the soft early morning sun falling on me. It feels so nice and soothing, and I just lie there, letting myself adjust, telling myself not to listen to the sounds around me. Is it really true? If I turn over and look at Satine's face, will her glassy, dead eyes stare back into mine? I don't even know what I'll do if it's true.

I slowly open my eyes and turn over.

She looks so still, lying there under the tree, her eyes closed. A light covering of snow has come over her face, mixing in with her curls of red hair, and I could almost believe that she was sleeping.

I reach over and stroke her cheek with a hand. I can feel cold tears sliding down my cheeks, as I cover my mouth with a hand to stifle my sob. Satine, my angel. Satine, my little bird. You've finally flown away, haven't you, Satine?

I put a hand under her neck, drawing myself close so that I can brush her lips with my own one last time-

To feel a pulse beneath my fingertips.

I can't understand it at first, and draw back, confused. What had I just felt? I scramble to take my glove off, feeling the bitter chill immediately when I do, but I ignore it, reaching for her neck and feeling for her jugular. There it is- her pulse. Her lovely, symphonic, _strong _pulse.

She's still alive.

"Satine?" I whisper, shaking her slightly, than stronger. "Satine!"

And then she opens her eyes.

So blue, so beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful as her open, responsive eyes, which blink twice in sleepiness.

"Christian…?" Her soft, confused voice is so naïve and innocent, still oblivious in sleep, and I can't help but give a gasp of happiness, pulling her into my arms.

"Satine... Oh, Darling…" I'm crying again in happiness, weaving my fingers through her hair, kissing her forehead, her nose, her eyelids, and finally her lips, loving the feel of their warmth. "Satine, my angel…" I can't believe it. She's alive! My Satine is alive!

"Christian." She smiles up at me, finally understanding what's happening. She traces the line of my jaw with a light finger, and I kiss it, too happy for words.

"Hey, what are you guys doing over there?" We both look up to see a policeman at the edge of the park, yelling to us. It takes us a moment to see why, and then we remember that we're under a tree in a park in the middle of winter, sleeping. And then we begin to laugh, because it's such a beautiful sound, and we both can't believe that we're hearing it again.

_End of Chapter 7_

**Well? What do you think? You like, don't like? Review and tell me! I love reviews, you don't know how much they help me when I write! **


	8. Chapter 8: The Diagnosis

**Hi everyone! So, it did not end there. It just took me a **_**really**_**long time to write this. So, I'm sorry if any of you readers have forgotten the story line. :) **

**I came up with a last name for Christian (and Satine) because I couldn't remember if I came up with another one in one of my other chapters. And, you know, I was kinda too bored to check it out. :P**

**So! I believe I'm ready now. Here it is!**

_Chapter 8: The Diagnosis_

Christian

I grip the corner of the sterile exam table, my eyes flickering anxiously from surface to surface, taking in the features of the docteur's exam room. Everything is white, everything clean- and it's blinding my eyes, making me blink. Or maybe it's just the fear and apprehension that has taken over my heart.

My other hand is resting on Satine's shoulder, every once and a while squeezing it or weaving a finger through her auburn curls. I can't take my hands off of her; every time she moves, it's as if a shock of anxiety is tearing through my veins, reminding me of what's to come.

We had given Satine's blood to be tested about an hour ago, and we were still waiting in the bare room, expecting a docteur to come into the room at any moment. I don't know if I'm wishing for him to hurry up- or never come.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, and as one, we both tense up, listening for where they will stop. She's shivering, and I take a quick glance down at her, to see her beautiful blue eyes filled with fear, her already pale cheeks completely void of color. I turn back to the door, listening, listening…

The footsteps pause at the door, and after a moment that lasts for hours, I hear the doorknob turn as someone steps into the room.

It's a man, wearing a docteur's coat, his pale blonde hair slick and straight against his scalp. A pair of spectacles rest on the bridge of his nose, and his slight mouth twists up in a customary smile.

"Bonjour, Monsieur and Madame…" he takes a quick look at his chart. "Adams. J'ai juste pris les résultats de votre test dos des labs." He gives a quizzical smile, staring at the both of us. "Préférez-vous le français ou l'anglais?"

"My husband is English, so that would be best." Satine's voice is strained and weak, and I grasp her hand in mine, smiling at her reassuringly. The docteur nods his head, being discreet about the thoughts that were no doubt crowding his head, from looking at Satine and me. What must we have looked like, an English man finding a beautiful French wife? I guess that was it.

"As I said, I just got the results from our labs." His face was a mask, and I can feel a stone plummet into my stomach. This is the part that we've been dreading.

"The consumption is still in your body." It's as if I've taken a physical blow, and I blink a couple of times to clear the lights that have taken over my eyes. I squeeze Satine's hand, and I can hear her give a sharp gasp, covering her face with her other hand.

"However, the virus has become dormant. Simply, this means that it's resting in her cells, not multiplying." The docteur pushes his glasses up on his nose a little higher, as I stare at him, trying to take it in. "This means that, at the moment, Mrs. Adams should begin to feel better each day."

"Wait…" I find my voice. "Does this mean that… that Satine has more time?"

"More time? Yes, I believe so, depending on what your perspective is. Satine can have weeks, maybe months or years left. We can't tell."

"Years?" Satine's voice is faint, and I feel the same way. I almost fall down with relief, and a smile spreads itself across my face. I can't help it; I turn to Satine, and I see that she's smiling too, not very wide, but still there. I give a soft laugh, kissing her softly on the cheek.

"However, at one time or another, the virus will become active once more. It might take a while, but it will come." The docteur gives a sad, remorseful smile. "I'm sorry."

"No.. no, this is great news for us." I laugh, feeling a rush of happiness take over my head. "We were thinking that she could be gone in days! But," I become somber again, "is there anything that we can do for it? And how does it become active again?"

"There is a cure that is in experimentation, but if it does come out in time for Mrs. Adams, it is very expensive. As for the causes behind the awakening of consumption, it is not completely known, but there are some valid reasons. Stress is very prominent, as well as weakness or poor health. However, it can become active at any time."

I take it all in, nodding, my hand squeezing Satine's all the time. "Thank you, docteur. Thank you for everything." I turn to Satine, helping her off of the exam table. Already the room seems cheerier to me, and I smile widely, kissing Satine's forehead.

"My pleasure." His job done, the docteur left us alone, as we made our way out of the hospital, the landscapes of Paris bright and tranquil, the air sweet, our love pure and fresh. Her hand is warm in mine, and I smile at her, taking up her chin in a kiss. Even if there is a time limit, it's better then nothing. We have time.

_End of Chapter 8_

**So… Not the best ending of a chapter, but good enough.**

… **Unless of course you think it should end there.**

**I really don't know where to go after this. I would like to go on, come up with a couple more chapters, but what do the readers think? I'll have a poll up on my profile; go vote, and tell me what I should do! Thank you!**


	9. Chapter 9: The Lights Stopped Turning

Hi everyone! :)

So, I was grasping at straws for a _very _long time there. I had NO idea what to do with this story! Until, ONE NIGHT, I was up late doing history homework, when I suddenly found the inspiration to write the entire story line for this thing!!!!

Yes, I'm very happy with myself.

So, I have lots of things in store for these guys, and it's all ready to be written down (it's playing over and over in my head). There's just a couple of things to address before we move on to the NEXT PART of the story:

I have decided to make Christian 25, and Satine, hm, maybe 24 or so. I'm sure that Baz Luhrmann planned for them to be older, but this is a fanfiction, where I can come up with new things, right? Right.

Even though the movie takes place at the turn of the century, I have decided to use the magical powers within me called poetic license to move the story up to 1914. Anyone know what's going on in history at this time? If you do, there's a hint for what's to come!!!

And… I think that's it. I felt really bad about changing things around, but I hope you guys don't mind too much. And I'd be so thankful to get reviews for this! Thanks.

_**Part 2**_

_Chapter 9: The Lights Stopped Turning_

**Toulouse**

**Everything seemed to change when Christian and Satine ran away. The colors of the Moulin Rouge seemed to dull, while the beautiful, young, bohemian faces grew gaunt and gaudy. A thick, noxious fog fell over the thriving Moulin Rouge, suffocating its inhabitants and leaving us worn and worse for wear.**

**When Christian and Satine ran away, the Duke seemed to fade in on himself. For many days after their disappearance, he had been in a rage, storming about and ordering searches for their immediate capture and return. After several weeks, however, his hand on the search grew lax, a film of disbelief seemed to cover his eyes, and he was often found slumped in a theatre chair, staring at the empty stage in front of him.**

**When Christian and Satine ran away, the show did not stop, but went on, as we knew it had to. The part of the courtesan fell to Nini, who picked it up with many a snide remark and gloating expression. However, us bohemians who had become her family noticed that she was not as much triumphant as shocked and dazed, breezing through the opening night with a fake smile on her face and the life that inhabited her eyes a shadow of its former self.**

**When Christian and Satine ran away, I thought that we would all collapse into each other, lost and confused, without the two lovers who held us all together. I thought that none of it could go on without them, that all of our lives would cease to exist without their prominence there. On opening night I sat on my mattress with a bottle of absinthe as my companion and just stared at the wall, thinking, sinking into remorse. And yet, just as Zidler always said, the show did go on.**

**After one week, we picked ourselves up and dusted ourselves off, trying to think of other things. After two weeks, Satine and Christian's rooms were cleaned out, and the garret was put up for rent once more. And after four weeks, their names rarely even registered in people's memories, their affair forgotten. But even so, their disappearance did something to our community of dreamers, romanticists, and storytellers. The liquor didn't seem as strong as it had been. The dances and costumes brought no sense of happiness. The singing and music fell on dead ears. **

**After Christian and Satine ran away, the unease of the surrounding towns and countries crept up into our view. Where once politics were never thought of, much less spoken, the air was soon abuzz with the latest news of England and Germany and Russia. Where once people laughed at the thought of a war ever happening, now people's eyes were distracted and agitated, darting from one person to the other, waiting for the first one to leave.**

**And sooner or later, it all will fall on us. And we'll be suffocated again, under all of the debris and the noise and the smell, and when it happens I know that the only thing that will fill my mind will be the image of Christian and Satine, and how they ran away from it all.**

_End of Chapter 9_

I know it was very short, but I thought it was a pretty good opening to the second part of this story. There are more chapters to come (soon) so please review! It'll make me write faster!


	10. Chapter 10: Breaking Habits

_Chapter 10: Breaking Habits_

**March, 1914**

_Satine_

_It seems like forever until I finally hear the familiar scraping of the key turning in the lock on our apartment door. A hard twist, a sharp shove, and then the door opens to reveal Christian, tired and worn. His hair is matted, and his clothes are wrinkled from being smashed in a ball when he changed them for his waiter's uniform, but when he sees me his eyes are just as bright as ever, his smile just as wide. I'm next to him in moments, and I give him a welcoming kiss, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders the moment that he's next to me. _

_"I've missed you," I whisper, smiling into his cheeks._

_"Me too," he laughs, lifting me up and spinning me around. I laugh and hold on tight until he puts me on the ground again. I quickly scurry over to the tiny kitchen/dining area, talking over my shoulder to him._

_"You know, you should really rethink not letting me work. I've been out of my mind with boredom all day. The neighbors are nice and all, but there's no fun! No excitement! No-" I pause when I look around the corner and see Christian staring absentmindedly at the couch in the living room. "Christian?"_

_"Yeah… Yeah?" He seems to pull himself back to me, a smile already pulling itself across his face, but for that moment I saw a flicker of anxiety cross his face, and my lips pull down in a frown._

_"Christian, we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. I didn't mean to bore you."_

_"No, Satine, it's not that! It's just…" He sighs and takes a hand through his matted brown hair, his eyes weary again. "I'm finding it a little difficult to get French citizenship. The offices are all blocked up with word of hostility and suspicion and all that…" He makes his way over to the dining room table, sitting down heavily._

_"You know you don't have to do this. We can move to England if you want-"_

_"No, no, France is your home. You like it here. I can't take this away from you."_

_I begin moving around the kitchen again, slowly, thinking. It's true: I love France. I love the language, the way that everyone acts, the atmosphere. From what Christian said, English is filled with stuck-up people who don't believe in making a mess of yourself or having much fun. I set a bowl of stew down in front of him._

_"That's true. But Christian, if you're unhappy-"_

_He smiles up at me. "I can never be unhappy if you're near me." He takes a spoonful of the beef stew and brings it to his mouth. _

_After a moment's pause, I pick up my bowl as well, sitting down next to Christian. I brush some free hair from off of his forehead before setting down to my food as well._

_For a couple of minutes, all we do is eat, taking in the warm, hearty stew. A bit of color returns to Christian's face, and I can see him relax in front of me, smiling as he catches me looking._

_"Darling, have you heard anything about what's happening outside of France?" His face freezes, and after a moment, he quickly looks down to the stew, stirring his spoon. I regret saying anything immediately, and reach across to grab his hand in mine. "I didn't mean to make you upset-"_

_"No, no, it's fine." He gives a weak smile. "Do you know what some leaders are saying? They're saying that a stagnant country is a weak one. They say that if they aren't riled up every once and a while, they become- debilitated, and inactive." He stares down at the bowl for a moment more before snorting and pushing back from the table. "All that talk, and what do they really have in mind? Their land. Their money. Can't give any thought for the common man."_

_"Christian-"_

_He looks back to me, and a look of shock spreads across his face. "Oh, Satine, Darling, I shouldn't have said anything. I slipped-"_

_"Christian, when did you change?" I look sadly up at him. "When did you get so involved in this? I thought you were all about truth, and beauty, and freedom…"_

_His expression is surprised, and then sorrowful. "I am, Satine. I just… It's just taking over, you know? I can't not think about it." He reaches over and rubs my cheek with his thumb. "Don't worry though, love. Nothing can change my love for you. Nothing in the world." He smiles and kisses me, before straitening up and walking to our bedroom. I listen and hear him sit down on our bed with the creaky springs, and I stare at the bedroom door for several minutes, before standing up and taking care of the dinner bowls._

**May, 1914**

Christian

"Bonjour, mademoiselles. Que voulez-vous?"

I smile at the two young ladies that are sitting at the outside table of the café. They both give out girlish giggles, covering their mouths with soft, white-gloved hands. One of them, who has dark brown curls that she's pulled to one side of her head, bats her eyelashes coyly.

"Oh, my." Her companion, a blonde with bright blue, naïve eyes stares up at me with another giggle. "A real Frenchman! It was worth the trip from England to see one face to face." She laughs again, soft peels that chime like bells.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm actually from England as well." I give another wide smile, which sends them into another round of giggles.

"Look at our luck, Margret! We have stumbled across one of the only decent English men in this town!" The brown-haired young lady can hardly contain her laughter, holding up her hand in front of her face again. "Well, I guess we don't have to go through the chore of saying what we want in French, now do we? Let's see, what do you suggest, Mr…?"

"Please, call me Christian." While the young ladies blush and I try not to groan, I list off my memorized list of favorites. "Our ham and melon appetizers are excellent, as well as our _pâtes au poulet, _our chicken pasta. _Le_ _soupe de pommes de terre_ is especially excellent. "

"Oh, well…" The two women looked at the menu for several moments, taking several glances up at me. "Hm… Can you list those off again? We just want to hear you speak them in French again." Another burst of giggles.

I did as they asked, without letting the smile drop from my face. I didn't move a muscle when they began asking me about where I grew up instead of ordering. I didn't even let a look of annoyance cross my face when they decided that they just wanted some water.

"Deux l'eaus, coming up." I give a last smile before turning around and quickly walking back inside the café, never once letting the façade slip from my face, listening to the two women try to pronounce "water" in French.

"Ah, quelques dames plus anglais, est-il?" The cook laughed when he saw my face. "Vous semblez toujours prendre eux. C'est juste à cause de votre apparence beau bon."

"Oui, cela doit-il être. Il me semble toujours d'attraper ceux de cette façon ridicule," I say sarcastically, filling up the glasses. I catch myself in the middle of saying anything else, though, stopping a remark from coming out. Really, what was I saying? They were English tourists, trying to get a laugh out of going to a foreign country. They must be no older then twenty-one. Why was I behaving like I minded?

I shake my head, trying to lose my tiredness. It's the stress and anxiety getting to me. I had been working extra shifts all this week, and I'd been working for the past thirteen hours straight. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining Satine's face in my mind's eye. After a deep breath I open them again, and, feeling a strength from the thought of helping my love, I walk back out to the waiting women.

"So, _Christian," _the one named Margret says coyly. "I never do this usually, but since we are in France…" She gives a soft laugh. "When does your shift get off?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, ladies." I smile and hold up my left hand, where my wedding ring is snuggly perched. Both of their smiles drop in disappointment.

"What a shame! Married already?" Margret gives a soft pout. "She must be very lucky."

I give out a soft, embarrassed sound, my eyes becoming soft with the thought of Satine. My angel, my love. She is very lucky, to still be alive. I'll do anything, anything at all, to keep her that way.

"Christian!" I'm pulled out of my thoughts by a soft shout. Looking up, my eyes widen in happiness as I see Satine herself standing at the edge of the café's patio. She's in one of my favorite dresses, her white one that matches so well with her red hair. She hasn't pulled out many of her old dresses from before we left in a long time, and her cheeks are bright and pink with life, her blue eyes sparkling.

"Satine!" I smile widely as we both begin walking towards each other, Satine reaching out and grabbing my hands. I dip down and kiss her softly, before lifting up and hugging her.

"What are you doing here?" I kiss her forehead, brushing a stray hair from it.

"Oh, I just wanted to see where you work. I think some of your customers are waiting for you." She giggles and points back to my table. When I turn around, the two girls are looking stunned and crestfallen. I laugh and walk over to them, never letting go of Satine's hand.

"Well, no wonder she got you," Margret said, her eyes slightly narrowed from envy. Indeed, Satine was looking at the prime of her health today, her cheeks bright and powdered, her lips painted red, her hair brushed smoothly into soft curls that she's swept over her shoulder, catching the light. Compared to her, the two women look like little girls. I laugh and kiss Satine's forehead again.

"Is there anything else you would like, mademoiselles?" They both shake their heads in the affirmative, turning away from Satine and I to talk together sulkily. I laugh softly and squeeze Satine's hand.

"Come on, I'll try to see if I can get off my shift ten minutes early." I carefully lead Satine inside, smiling all the way.

Peter lets me off, smiling widely at Satine and telling me to go have fun. I smile my thanks and ask Satine to wait while I change. Once I'm in my regular clothes, we head out of the café and onto the regular streets, taking our time down the streets of Paris.

Since it's still early May, it's quite chill in the air, the tree's buds barely there on their branches. Hand and hand, Satine and I make our way up and down the French streets, sometimes talking, sometimes enjoying the silence together. Our feet lead us to the park where we had fallen asleep so long ago, or that's how it feels to me. We walk to the exact tree where we had slept, and just stared at it for a while, remembering. Looking at Satine now, I can hardly remember how she had looked at the peek of her illness: skin as pale as death, sweat covering her face, her lips stained with blood. I close my eyes to the memory. Her cheeks are still pale, but in a much healthier way, with splotches of color. I smile and kiss her softly.

"What was that for?" She laughs softly, kissing me back.

"Do I need a reason?" Her lipstick smudges on my mouth, and I pretend to lick it off, making her laugh again. Holding her tight, I lead her back the way that we came, back to the buildings, back to our home.

_End of Chapter 10_

**Hope you guys liked the longer chapter!**

**So, a little note at the bottom of this (again). The action will be coming soon, I promise. At the moment, it's going pretty slowly, but it'll speed up in the next chapter, I promise. **

**(fingers crossed! XD)**


	11. Chapter 11: To Think We Had It All

**A/N: I HOPE this will be the last authors note for a while. I just have to say, even though I know about it and have researched it, I do not know everything about World War I. (In case you haven't figured it out yet, that's what happens in 1914. :D) For example, I know the major battles and armies and all that, but I don't know, say, when most citizens of France were drafted. So, I will use my powers of analysis and conclusion to come up with what might have happened. Just saying, though, that I am no history major.**

**Okay. Just to get that out there.**

… **Now I feel kind of stupid. OH WELL!!! Enjoy the next chapter. :)**

_Chapter 11: A Thousand Moments_

**August, 1914**

Christian

I'm trudging down the streets of Paris again. It's blistering outside, and I feel numb from the heat, my forehead sticky with sweat. The air is dry, making my throat sore from breathing in and out. I know that I should go inside, but still I walk on, looking at the ground, the stores, the sky. A single cloud hovers above me, not looking very menacing, fluffy and white. I stop to look at it for a moment, thinking.

However much Satine and I try to work around it, our love isn't enough to keep us alive. My work as a waiter isn't bringing in as much money as we've been needing, and soon the money that we both have saved up will run out. Once that happens… I sigh and wipe my forehead with a hand, messing up my hair. Satine wants to work, but we can't find any that I'll allow her to take up.

Slowly, I look down from the sky to the store front in front of me. It's a common grocery, and several posters are plastered on the glass, advertising all different types of things. One catches my eye, and I stare at it for several minutes, reading the thick, black, block lettering, the simple message, the French flag draped over a sturdy army helmet, with a long rifle leaning against it.

The war efforts had tripled in the past few weeks. After we had finally declared war on Germany at the beginning of August, the war became a constant thing, an object in the air beside us. Every breath we took was filled with fear and propaganda shoved down our throats. No one really knew what was going on on the battlefront.

After several moments of taking it in, I turn, and begin walking home again.

~*~

When I turn the key in the lock of our apartment and push the door open, I know that something's wrong. Satine's usual cheerful presence is not there, and I start, my eyes narrowing in worry.

"Satine?" I call out, setting my keys on a counter that I pass. I put a hand casually in my pants pocket, looking from room to room. "Satine?" I'm just about to guess that she's at a neighbors house, when I turn into the kitchen area, and stop in fright.

At first I think that she's fainted. She's fallen to the ground, her flowing dress sprawled out around her. Letters have fallen from her grasp like so many dead birds. Her red curtain of hair is covering her face, but at my voice, she slowly lifts her head, letting her hair fall back. I can barely look at her eyes, as hollow as the insides of a dead tree, black and unforgiving. A flicker, and then it all gives way to sorrow, an immense wave of sorrow that fills up her eyes and spills over. A single tear rolls down her cheek, as she lifts up a shaking hand. Inside her grasp is an envelope.

Dumbly, I take it from her, looking at the already-opened edge. Taking out a thick sheet of paper, I read it with dead eyes, barely taking in the words. Thick, black, block letters blare out at me.

My mouth goes dry, as if it has been swabbed with cotton. I lick my lips, looking down to Satine again. She looks as if she's been crushed to the floor, staring down at the tiles.

"Come on up, Satine," I say weakly. "It's dirty down there."

A soft moan escapes her lips, and I reach down and help her up gently by the arm. She complies, but as a puppet, and she doesn't make a noise when I sit her down on the couch. I get up to go fix her a mug of tea, but when I turn around I see that she has silently followed me, grasping onto my arm.

"Christian…" Her lips tremble, and her eyelashes dot with tears.

"Oh, Darling…" I hug her tight, listening to her sob against my back. I lead her to the couch again, letting her sink down onto the mattress. Bringing her back around to face me, I see that her face is blotched and red, and her eyes are puffy. Looking into my face, she breaks out into fresh tears.

"Shh….. Shh…." I rub a thumb over her cheek, kissing her softly on the lips. "Darling, it'll be alright, you'll be alright…"

She begins shaking in my arms, and at first I think it's because she's crying again.

"I'm c-cold…" Her breath catches, and she gives a gasp, her eyelids fluttering.

"Satine!" I call out her name, grabbing a blanket from off of the back of the couch and wrapping it around her. "Satine!"

"I'm alright, Christian…" She begins to cry again. "I'm alright…"

I can feel myself crying now too, and I brush them away with the back of my hand. "Satine, it'll be okay-"

"Okay?" Her voice is wavery and wet. "How could it be? Christian, I can't- I can't-" She breaks out into sobs, with intermittent hiccups.

"I know, Darling, but, you know, this way there will be one less mouth to feed- I'll send all of my wages home-"

She lets out a loud sob. "Why would I care about that, Christian? W-why…?" A look of hysteria enters her eyes.

"Listen, Satine, I was just thinking of maybe, joining the effort, anyway…"

"You were th-thinking of l-leaving me?" She chokes on the words, her eyes now shining with fear and anguish. "I can't-" She takes a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. I take her hand in mine, opening up her closed fist.

"Satine, I won't leave you!" I kiss her forehead, brushing her hair with a hand. "I'll come back, and it'll all be better, you see? It will be, Satine."

Her crying left her weak, and she softly falls down against me, letting out a sigh. Looking down, I see that she's fainted, and I quickly pull her upright, looking for signs of the illness. Her skin is still healthy, though, and when I feel her forehead it's smooth and dry. Her breath comes evenly in and out, in and out.

I stare down at her for a while, brushing her hair with my hand. Too much excitement for my angel. I kiss her softly on the cheek, letting her sleep on my lap, until the light coming in through the windows becomes darker and, finally, extinguishes itself.

_End of Chapter 11_


	12. Chapter 12: Last Year's Song

_Chapter 12: Last Year's Song_

**August, 1914**

_Satine_

_I had woken early that morning just to stare out of our apartment's window. When I touched the glass, it still felt cold against my fingers, the light barely spreading across the panes. _

_Looking back to our bed, I see my Christian, spralled across the pillows. He had gone to bed early, falling asleep immediately. I crossed my hands over my chest, staring down at him._

_His face is always calmest in sleep. Wrinkles that I didn't even know that he had disappeared from his face, leaving it smooth and fragile. I cough softly into my hand, pulling my nightrobe closer against the morning chill._

_Today is our last day together. I want him to be awake, to be able to look into his eyes and see the life there. But he had been tired for the past few weeks, so very tired. I let him sleep._

_~*~_

_At the station, we said our goodbyes._

_I readjusted his traveling pack, kissing it softly for no reason in particular. When I look up, I see Christian looking back at me, a sad smile on his face. As one, we both lean in for a kiss._

_"You'll never cut your hair, will you?" He brushes my hair with his hand, just as he always does. I smile even though I know that my heart is about to break at any moment. We only have moments left; the train has been waiting for a while, and it'll soon be heading off. I still have things I need to say._

_"Christian-" I say it at the same time that he says my own name, and we both pause, and laugh._

_"You first." He kisses my hand, holding it._

_"I have something for you." I reach into the pocket of my dress, pulling out an envelope. Opening it carefully, I pull out a black and white photo, placing it in Christian's open palm. He lifts it up to his face, and his eyes widen._

_"I got it done a little while ago," I say, looking down to my dress. "I wanted to make sure you had a picture of me while you were- out there."_

_"Satine-" His voice is strangled, and when I look up, I can see that he's staring at me in equal parts of disbelief and happiness. "How- You shouldn't have spent your money on this-"_

_"Yes I should have," I say firmly. "This can be the most important thing that you have." I smile, and he joins me._

_"I'm sure it will be." He kisses me again before reaching into his own pocket. "I have something for you too." He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. I open it up to see a neatly written address. When I look at the country, I see that it's England. I look up to him questionly._

_"What's this?"_

_"It's the address of my parent's house. I know I haven't talked about them much before, and you haven't asked about them…" He looks down and pulls a hand through his hair. "After I told them that I was going to leave England and become a part of the Bohemian Revolution, they… disowned me." He looks up again, a chagrined smile on his face. "I didn't think I would ever need them again, and I didn't want to ever rely on them. But…" Here he stops smiling, and looks to our clasped hands, holding them up so he can kiss mine. My face has gone numb._

_"If I die, I need to be sure that you have somewhere to go. Don't-" I had started to protest, but he held up a finger to my mouth, smiling sadly. "They may not like me, but they'll probably take in their dead son's widow." At his words I began to cry for the first time all day, because I couldn't keep the tears back._

_"No no no, Satine, don't cry! I know we'll find a way back together somehow. But if it happens… If it happens, I need to know that you will be safe. Will you go to this address? For me?"_

_I nod sharply, biting my lip to keep from crying._

_"That's my angel." He kisses the top of my head again, and just as he pulls up the train gives out a departure whistle. Turning to the train, he looks back to me, and for a fleeting moment, I can see the fear flickering in his eyes like a candle, caught and smoldering into his heart. He cups my face in his hand, looking deeply into my eyes._

_"I don't want to lose you." It's a whisper, and I close my eyes softly, leaning in for a final kiss. It's tender and loving, and we're both shaking from stress and anxiety. But just for a moment, for a single second, I'm transported back to that time on the roof, back when it all seemed so simple. And it is, it still is._

_I pull back, and I can feel tears trickling down my cheeks. "The greatest thing…"_

_He joins in as well, looking into my eyes. "You'll ever learn…"_

_"Is just to love…" We sing it together. The bell whistles behind him._

_"And be loved…" Christian moves away, and our clasped hands separate, falling to our sides. We whisper in harmony. "In return…"_

_"Come what may," he whispers, giving a final, loving smile, the one that I see every day, and still racks my soul with happiness. He turns around and jogs to the loading station, barely making it on before the stairway is removed. I try to follow his path through the train with my eyes, but I can't find him in the mass of bodies. I hurriedly move closer, trying to make him out through the windows, but now the train is moving, and the steam is pouring out from the top of the train. _

_"Christian!" I yell his name, but it's lost in the noise of the station. "Christian!" _

_The train moves away from the station, and I'm left standing on the platform, watching the smoke disappear behind a bend. I can feel rain start to fall onto my head, and I realize that I had run out from under the overhang. I can't do anything but stand and stare at the corner, feeling as if I'd been punched in the stomach, my hair becoming damp and heavy._

_"Come what may," I whisper. _

_End of Chapter 12_


	13. Chapter 13: Forgetting

**Hi everyone! Sorry I'm late again, but I made this extra long just for you readers. Also, a note: I keep on switching between giving French translations and just saying it normally. I'm just weird like that. It's all spoken in French unless said otherwise. :)**

_Chapter 13: Forgetting_

Christian

Once on the train, I'm bustled down the aisle, pushed from both sides by the other passengers. Most are other recruitments, or as far as I can see. The train lurches to a start. I need to sit down.

Opening a door at random, I see that there's one seat empty, with three other men inside. I give a hesitant smile.

"Um, Puis-je utiliser ce siege? Can I use this seat?" The men have looked up when the door opened, and they nod together. I make my way in, setting down my pack.

"Excuse me, can you lift that shade? Thanks." I peer outside, looking for Satine's red hair, her soft white face. Finally I see her, and I feel a start of anguish. She's looking desperately at the train, trying to find my face. Reaching up, I try to open the window, but it won't budge. Finally I look down again, and I see she's yelling something. I put my hand up against the glass, knowing that she wouldn't be able to hear me even if I yelled.

I watch as the station falls out of sight, then sit back down, apologizing to the man I had leaned across, and who had scooted over to give me room.

"No problems, mate." The man said in French. "Is that your _fille_ out there?"

"Yes, my wife." I bite my lip, dragging my pack over to me. I take out the picture from the pocket that I had dropped it in. The three men whistle in the train compartment when they take a look.

"_Ta femme_? How old are you, to be married already? And to such a _belle_?"

"Twenty-five," I said, smiling even as the train takes me farther and farther away from Satine. "We met through work." That gives me an inner chuckle.

"What kind of work? I might be interested in it, after the war." The men laugh, and the one next to me extends a hand. "My name is Phillipe. And yours?"

"Christian," I say, shaking his hand. The others introduce themselves as well, and the atmosphere starts to warm up in the cabin.

"So, what's your story, Christian? Sounds like it could be interesting." All of the men look my way, smiles on their faces.

I pause for a moment, thinking. Do I really want to relive it all over again: all those days and nights where my life was simple, where I didn't have to always think about Satine's illness or the war or money or anything, just being with her? Being able to see her smile, see her laugh, just see her. And now I can't.

"Well…." A slow smile pulls itself across my face, as I think tenderly of her face, glancing down at the photograph. It doesn't show the redness of her hair, but I can see it shine through, just like her eyes.

"I first came to Paris almost a year ago," I started, finding my storyteller's voice. "I came to be a part of the Bohemian Revolution…"

By the time the train came to a halt at the station, I had told my entire story. The men were silent for a while, then gave me consolations and remarks, all of them filled with something from my story. It did help, in the end; by the time that I got to the part where we left to Paris, and Satine told me that she was dying, the other men in the small room gave me groans of sympathy, clapping me on the back. Thinking back on it made it seem more worthwhile; all of those things that I went through, those events were my life. Through these, Satine and I had emerged as the people we are now.

At the station, the other recruitments on the train and I were immediately transported to another train, this one only carrying signed on men. Philippe, Marc, Armand and I all got to be in the same car again, and we continued talking about each other's lives. I learned that Philippe and Armand had known each other before this, growing up together in Avignon. Philippe, a relatively well-off young man, had joined the army for family pride; his father had been a soldier before coming home and starting up a textile business. Armand happened to live in the neighborhood next to them, and they had known each other since before they could remember. Marc lived in a little town outside of Lyon, with his extended family. He spoke animatedly of his strong father, his beautiful, flaxen-haired sisters, and his lively grandmere that constantly hit him over the head with a stick.

I listened to everyone else's stories with interest. I smiled at their accomplishments; I sighed in sympathy at their problems. Armand had lost a twin brother in a factory incident just that year, while Philippe's mother had taken a bout of melancholy, spending most of her time away from the others and in her own room. We all had our own problems, but our own successes as well.

"Christian." Marc spoke softly, his accent smooth. I had learned that this was from his mother, who had lovingly forced him to speak eloquently as a child, and it had stuck with him through life. "You said you left England, but you didn't say if you left a family. Did you?"

My eyes closed slightly in chagrin. "Yes, I did. I had just wanted to get out, to something new… I have a mother, and father, and younger brother, Sean. I wonder how they are…" My thoughts travelled back in time, back to memories of my brother. I felt a tingle of shame in my stomach.

Almost ten years after my birth, my mother was surprised to have another son, and the common fear was that he wouldn't be in good health for having such an old mother. But he was, and exceptionally so; strong and fit, his features sharp and assured. His hair is a light brown, or it was, when I left. Together, we look nothing alike.

A memory now: his bright eyes looking up, startled and frightened, into mine, as I patted his shoulder for the last time. He was barely sixteen then, which meant that he must be nearing his seventeenth birthday now. I had asked him to watch over the family, while I left to find my own life and fortunes. Had it really been right to leave him under those circumstances?...

A bump of the train, and I'm roused from my thoughts, looking around at the others. I can see that they're waiting for me to go on, and I smile, speaking again.

"I wish that I had said something to them before I left." But more importantly, I told myself, I was able to be with my new family: Satine.

"You'll be able to say hello after the war." Armand rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder before telling an entertaining story about his own family, leaving me to remember the past.

**September, 1914**

The next month passed in a blur. We had been unloaded onto a platform, not given much information about where we were or what we were to be doing. The men in uniform that we passed look tired, and worn down, even though the war had only just started. Or at least, it felt like it for civilians. For these men, the war must have been going on for an eternity.

We were packed off to camps, and the four of us had the luck of being in the same one. We were given uniforms, weapons, backpacks full of supplies and small canisters of food for emergencies.

Our duties were given to us when we got to the site. At first, I thought they were kidding, but from their stern, harsh looks, I knew they weren't. We had been taken to camps that, I was surprised to find, were not as far from Paris as I had thought. I felt a strong panic enveloping my heart when I heard that the front had swept this far into France. _Would Satine be safe? _

Then I heard of our duties. Basically, our only job in the war was to wait. And wait we did. The front had stalled to a near-standstill, where each side only moved a few hundred meters at a time for weeks, if that. And we were the backup line of defense; our daily routine consisted of staying in the deep trenches that had been dug by other soldiers, to sit in their cubbies dug out of the muddy earth, and wait.

The exhilaration and adrenaline from getting to the camp was easily washed away by exhaustion and the overhanging boredom. Much later, those immense feelings were laughably forgotten, for they had only lasted for two days at most. Over the never-ending months, I never recalled those feelings. They were not especially pleasant, and I enjoyed rather to reminisce on before the war.

Standing, in dry weather, the mud swamped around our feet or slucked at our worn-out boots that were given to us and were some of our most important treasures. After a rain, the mud would reach as high as our thighs, and sitting down was an impossibility. The ever-present feeling of being dirty sucked the spirit from our very bones. Having to relieve ourselves within our confining trenches, the rain only brought this out to wash in with the rest of the mud, the noxious fumes almost knocking some soldiers out. I began to hallucinate, imagining myself soaking in a hot spring, clean and warm, instead of muddy, disgusting and chilled to the bone.

The monotonous waiting pulled at even the strongest soldier's spirits. It seemed so useless- why had we been sent to sit in trenches, foul and dreading each new day? The only thing keeping me from completely detesting this hell that I had landed in was the thought of entering the actual war zone. I knew that I could never be prepared for that. I was an artist, a romanticist, not a soldier. I had read numerous accounts of men much stronger than myself falling victim to fright, losing their minds from it.

I don't know what I would have done if I did not have my storytelling. The only thing that I could take with me- in the end, it was the same thing I had left England with- my will to tell a good story, to be part of the revolution of romantic writers. My stories of love seemed so jarringly off in this land of mud and putridness, but that made my stories all the more enchanting, unbelievable. After some skeptism, the other soldiers began to ask for my stories, standing around in silence as I told of foreign lands, of beautiful women and brave men that had never let a moment of fear enter their hearts. My friends that I had made on the train encouraged me, always clapping at the ends of my stories. Their friendship was something that I held extremely dear.

The letters I got from Satine were like a fire burning through the rest of my now dismal existence. They were flames of brilliance, illuminating a world I had left behind and I would have thought had disappeared completely if not for her telling me it was so. I cherished all of the three that I got: the first, only a few weeks after I had arrived; the second, several months later; and the third, several months following. The first was brimming with love and agony, and it tore my heart to no end to read it. It seemed like she had poured her very soul into the words, letting nothing back. Even though any words from her were like the Bible to me, this first letter is the most painful. In it, she described how much she longed for me to be back, and how she didn't know if she could survive long without my presence. I wrote back immediately, urging her to calm her suffering spirits, that I would be home soon, and that there was nothing to worry about.

Her second letter was calmer, more serene. Whether this was because her agony had cooled, or she did not wish to alarm me any further, I could not tell; her words were filled with pleasantly trivial things, details of her life, things that I had missed and sent a sharp ripple of reorganization running down my spine whenever I came across one. She went to a _park_? Did those even exist anymore? Wasn't the world just one big mud pit, swallowing up everything whole?

Her third was as gentle as the second, but I couldn't help but sense a bleakness in their depths. Her handwriting, usually flared and flourished, just like everything about her, had now become crammed and neatly written. I wondered what had happened to her to create this change. In my last letter I had asked her what she was doing; her answer was vague, replying that she was working, and it was working out for her. This answer spread alarm through my being, sending images of her working in the Moulin Rouge through my mind. Slowly, I shook my head of the thoughts. She promised she would never go back to that occupation again. I could only trust that she would find another to keep her living fairly well.

In the letter, she thanked me for the money from the war that was sent back, which I thought was hardly necessary. Where else would it go? But I tried not to inquire to her fragile, polite comments. Her first, emotionally charged letter had frightened me for her sake; these soft, quiet words, however unnerving, showed that she was in at least somewhat healthier spirits.

My latest letter to her had inquired into our old friends. Had she heard from them? Was it too dangerous to contact them? Somehow the danger from the Duke seemed years away from me now. I longed to hear of the Bohemians, their lovingly exuberant actions, the way that their presence could so entirely wrap you up in the ultimate pleasure of being alive. How were our friends doing?

_ Satine, my darling, I could never put into words how entirely I long for your presence, and yet so adamantly wish you to stay away from me as far as possible. It is not safe for you here. Although we are at a stalemate now, a change can break out at any moment. I long for your touch, but am happy you are safe._

_ I love you. Come what may._

_-Christian_

End of Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14: The Wait

**Hi again, everyone! SO, while writing this, I realized that I am going WAY outside of the Moulin Rouge spectrum here. (No duh, right?) It's kind of taken on a storyline of its own. I want to hear from the readers if this is disturbing any of you, or frightening you off, or anything. Please? Feedback is great. :D**

**Yeah, yeah. Here's the chapter. XD**

Chapter 14: The Wait

_Satine_

_I began to wonder if agony ever really ended, or if people only said it did so as to walk around the issue all together. As I watched the people around me, however, I began to wonder if it was not that agony ever really disappeared, but that it was_ _overrun by the the everyday encounters and trials. There was too much anguish in this world for one person's to completely consume them; it would be selfish, in a backwards way._

_Take my neighbor, Madame Duvois. She has a lame husband at home and a young son on the battlefront. Just yesterday she got the letter that he was dead; he must have died days ago, but it was impossible to know the exact time, with the inaccuracy and detachment of the letter. That night I could hear her sobbing through the paper-thin walls, and I came over to comfort her with food and a silent embrace._

_Madame Duvois and I had not been very social with each other before this. I knew of her presence, and she knew of mine; but besides this blatant fact, there were no inquiries of any kind. Throughout moments of my life I would pick up on moments of hers: I sometimes exited the house at the same time as her, or her husband, or her son, when he was alive, or perhaps hear their lives through those same paper-thin walls. In any case, I became accustomed to their general appearance. The wife of the family is stout, amply-chested, with a plump reddish face and flyaway brown hair pinned up against her scalp under the same knitted thing. Monsieur Duvois rarely left unless he is accompanied by one of the other two, for he is not the best with his unwieldy chair on wheels. His face is pale and unseemingly mushy, as if he were a rotting vegetable just waiting to be thrown out with the garbage. His eyes are pale, while his skin is yellowed with jaundice. Every time I look at him, I fear that my future-old age- is peering back at me. _

_Their young son, while alive, was handsome, in a way that makes one wonder how such a man could spring from such a dismally lacking family and situation. However, I have realized, it is not fair to think of a person as only the one that you see in front of you today. The Duvois may have been beautiful people in their youth, or at least different from how they look now. It reminds me of how Marie would tell me, in a rare moment of confidence, that she hoped, when she finally made it to heaven, that she would appear as the young girl she once was. I looked at her differently after she said that. Just because you may see someone in a certain part of their life, does not mean that they have always been, or always will be, this way._

_In any case, the son was indeed young, and handsome in the way that young men are, with his shaven, solid jaw setting the backdrop for his pleasant, neutral features. He _looked _like one of the young men sent off to war, the kind that is featured on brochures and posters. My Christian isn't, and laughably so. It made me weep how, even as he climbed up the stairs of that billowing train and was taken from my life so abruptly, that he always, and would always, look like an artist. His soft visage, so hungry for the slightest whiff of emotion to send a gushing, heady mass of it flooding into the seams of his face, could never lose that trait._

_Or at least I hop so, I realize,, on those nights spent awake and thinking of him. I had a lot of time to think in those first few days, of Christian, of life in general. What would happen, I wondered, if Christian returned from war only to be missing in that incomprehensible fire of his? I shuddered to think, and burrowed further into the recesses of my memories._

_And the Duvois had apparently taken a similar approach. After their son had left, which was only a few months before Christian himself, they began their journey through new, clouded eyes, helpfully blunted against things that would have otherwise overwhelmed them. I am ashamed that I had not thought much of their struggles at the time. Silly, oblivious I! Still happily unaware of the dangers creeping in, until it is too late._

_And yet, when the letter came yesterday, and her throbbing wails shook the very seams of the apartment building, I came over, because I realized that I _had _to. Not only for her, but (and here I grimace) for my own selfish self. While standing before her door, I was able to fully take in the pain, the insecurity, of not knowing when _my _letter will come. I could not foresee if I would be the stronger for it. And yet, I took this probably unnecessary precaution- because the monster of announced death in the form of a blatant letter frightens me. The idea of receiving my own haunts my very dreams._

_I could not tell if Madame Duvois took comfort in me being there, or was able to. She cried into my chest, as I held her, lowering her to a chair and lettering her weep. I believed that I cried too, because her situation came plummeting down on my shoulders- the only joy in her life, a handsome son to call her own, had just been taken from this world. For what it was worth, I shed my condolences. I do not know if she heard._

_Now I sit up in my bed, starkly empty with its unused pillow. A letter is in my lap: luckily, however, it is from Christian. I read it hungrily. I had only just gotten it today, which I had picked up on my way home from work. I could hardly wait until I entered my own apartment to rip it open. From the Duvois' door, I could hear shallow sounds of life._

Satine, my darling, I could never put into words how entirely I long for your presence, and yet so adamantly wish you to stay away from me- as far as possible. It is not safe for you here. Although we are at a stalemate now, a change can break out at any moment. I long for your touch, but am happy you are safe.

I love you. Come what may.

-Christian

_I bring the letter close to my chest after finishing, clutching it in my fingers as if Christian's essence in the writing can seep through the paper to the beating heart beneath. It hurts, to be away from him. And yet this in itself is an understatement. The depression is so prominent in my life, I can hardly rise from my bed in the morning, immersed in the gravity of the day ahead. _

_I read it through again, picking up on his questions. I had actually just written a letter to my friends from the Moulin Rouge, hoping that the Duke's anger had swollen over and died down. It must have, because the letter had gone through and Toulouse had sent an exuberant and lengthy reply, writing in great detail of all important events that had occurred after Christian and I had left. Reading his familiar handwriting, my heart throbs with longing to be back in the home that I have known for longer than I can remember. The longing is especially strong while Christian is gone._

_And yet, I know that I cannot return, no matter how much Toulouse and the other bohemians (who had added their own letters) had begged. I have a duty, to wait for Christian. I will wait here until the end of the world, if I have to. The reply, which I had sent nearly two weeks ago, spoke of this promise, and Christian's involvement in the war. I can only wait for their reply._

_And so, the monotony of each and every day tries to overwhelm my sleep-deprived mind. My work, however, is the only thing that keeps me sane; without it, the distress would have driven me mad weeks ago. As it is, I can focus on the mundane events of the day. It helps the time pass._

_Every night, before I go to bed, I write some more of the letter to Christian. I want it to be perfect; I would hate to have any of the depression of my first few letters seep into the new ones. Christian's life sounds dreary enough with out my own grievances. It shames me to think of the luxuriant life I am living while Christian is out on the front. I long to bring him as much happiness as I can with my letters._

_And I wait._

_End of Chapter 14_

**Wow, that was short. Almost a waste of a chapter, methinks. For that, I'll bring the next one out super-soon. And it won't be as… blah. More action, less dwelling. Gah! It's like I'm writing through mud, or something. Next will be better. :) **


	15. Chapter 15: Mercy

**Hey everyone! The first passage might be a little graphic, so you don't have to read it. You won't miss all that much, but I thought it might help to add a little more reality to the situation.**

**Wow, this sure has gotten off track from my original romantic lovey-dovey theme, hasn't it?**

Chapter 15: Mercy

Christian

Last week, Phillipe got trench foot. Stuck in the mud as we are, the thought of removing out shoes and socks is rather repulsive, so the first sign that Phillipe received of the condition was the numbness in his feet. Even then, he didn't really react, seeing as our feet usually _were _asleep most of the time. Since that was the case, the pain was the first real sign that alerted him.

_It was the socks_, he yelled in anguish, _the one bloody fucking pair of socks._ His feet had swollen up to fat, sickly blue slabs of meat, hanging limply from his legs like diseased fruit. We hadn't noticed the smell of it before, but as soon as those socks came off the rancid scent of decaying flesh filled our small trench. Already, areas of his feet were becoming black with necrosis.

Compared to how he could have reacted, Phillipe was relatively calm. He waited patiently as the stretcher arrived, and only stared at his now-bandaged feet while they took him away. He was looking at them like they were dying friends, like he would never see them again.

We watched him go with a mixture of sadness and envy. The sadness was obvious- he was our friend, a war friend who would likely lose his feet and possibly his legs from simply sitting in a trench. The envy crept up on us as we watched his feet getting bandaged, and we realized that he, at least, would be taken care of, while we were left to rot in the mud.

I'm one year into this mess. I can't even believe it. A year in this hell-hole? I guess you can say I've accustomed to it. After what happened to Phillipe, my body, and especially my feet, are looked over as often as possible.

It was, in fact, almost a year to the day when I got the order to join the front lines. It was curt and to the point: you will take part in the war at its meeting point, between the two sides. You will stay there for several weeks before you will be replaced by another back-liner and return to your trench.

Empty fear gurgles in the pit of my shriveled stomach. It's a forgotten fear, something that I remember from the beginning of my sentence but has been lost along the way. I rise to the challenge with little complaint. War is war is war.

The change in scenery is a little unsettling, though. After spending so much time in an uneventful area, the new, boisterous trenches of Ypres, oozing activity and panic, leave a certain amount of dread running through your veins. Even the strongest of men would be startled by the events in the trenches.

The first few days are restless, but silent on the enemy side. I had moved to the front lines without my fellow group members, and each face in front of me is new. They aren't hostile, though; the trenches have drained them too thoroughly for that. All of the men only look like emotionless, dirty drones.

Everyone's motions are harried. Instead of disinterested, bored looks, the men hold faces of agitation and fatigue. There's no time, or energy, to chit-chat; I hardly became introduced to the men closest to me.

It's as if the mud itself is draining the life from us. Sometimes I wake up from a restless night, and realize I feel more run-down than I had felt before going to sleep. The atmosphere imbibes our life as well- but not in the intoxicating way that the Moulin Rouge did. Oh, happy days those were, full of light and excitement! And Satine- but I can't think of her, not here. I'm afraid to take out her picture now, afraid that the dirtiness of the trenches will tarnish her bronzed curls, that her skin will darken in all of the horrible filth.

Each day, we awaken to the same foul, chill air, breathing in the stenches from last night and the day before, and the day before that. It gets to a point where it's as natural to you as the smells of home. We take in our pabulum, and it does nothing for our wretched stomachs. The trenches are a prison, one from which I can never escape.

It's about two weeks into my front-line duty. Technically, I'm not at the head of the line; there are several bands ahead of me. But I might as well be there. It's our group that does the advancing, the retreating, and the advancing once more. Men who stand beside me are shot down before my eyes. We might not be the ones on the extreme tip of the allied forces, but it's all null when it comes to the consequences.

It's early morning, and the trenches are as they always are. It takes a while for soldiers to pick up on the advancing smog across the hazy battle field. At first it looks like some desert mirage of sand and smoke, and even though we're in Belgium, and I've never witnessed such a phenomenon, this is still what I think of: the ancient, pristine sands of Egypt, aged and awesome in its gusts of antiquity and primordial power. But, of course, this is not it- not sand that envelops the fields, but smog, yellow-green and thick.

The commanders become anxious at the oncoming smoke. There are enemy soldiers hiding in there, they say, with every weapon available to hack us down. I ready for battle with fear invading my senses. Everything before my eyes becomes a haze, just like the fog. Even before it's upon me, I can't see.

_This must be why they use the fog, _I presume hazily. _For the fear. _

The smog overtakes me, and I ready my weapon, gritting my teeth as my world turns to a pussy green. As I inhale, an acrid smell of pineapple and pepper fills my nostrils, and I sneeze.

"Quiet, soldier!" The commander spits, but I'm not the only one who sneezes. All around me, the soldiers are turning into their sleeves, bending comically against the smell. Tears running down my face, I turn in surprise, caught in a sudden bout of amusement that barrages the bulwark of terror. All around me, soldiers stoop and lean against each other, sneezing. What on earth could be going on? I try to smile, but am overcome with a hacking cough that brings me to my knees.

Everything seems too heavy- my pack, my clothes, the fog around me, my lungs. I take in a raspy breath, and terror shoots through my head, sending tremors through my agitated body. _I can't breathe. _I hack up phlegm, coughing against the burning pain in my throat. There are other soldiers on their knees, gripping their chests. I can barely see anything through my tears, and everything is a green haze.

Someone is shouting something. I shake my head, trying to jar myself out of the pain of breathing. _Poison. _It's poison, burning my throat, consuming my lungs. My legs are wobbly, and they barely hold as I stumble to my feet.

The commander nearest me is yelling. "Retreat! Retreat!" The orders are nonsensical to my oxygen-drained mind. I stumble to the side, tripping over my feet, almost blacking out. However, the message finally flows to my brain, and a sensation so primordial that it sends shivers running down my spine breaks into my system, screaming through my veins. _Run. _Damn it! I run. My sense of direction is horrible, but I follow the sounds of running, coughing men. The sounds weave in and out of my ears, and after a moment I give up trying to sort them out, putting all energy into my legs.

I break through the wall of smog, but my lungs are still on fire. We run through line after line of soldiers, and whenever I have the energy or capability to look up, I can see the confusion and dawning fear break across their faces. I wheeze out words like "gassed" or "run" when I can. Mostly, I sprint head on, coughing and gasping at the tearing pain in my throat and lungs.

I don't know how long I last. At some point, my legs give out, and I collapse on the ground, wheezing. It hurts so much to breathe, to move. My legs feel like they've been ripped apart. Everything becomes gray, and I pass away, gasping into oblivion.

I swim in and out, not really asleep, but not awake either. Someone's coughing is keeping me awake. Next thing I realize, I'm in a bed, smelling of sweat and medicine. There are blurred people above my head. I gasp out, for water I think, and they must have understood, because my hazy vision is now blocked by a canteen, plump with cold water. I slurp at the liquid, and most of it dribbles down my chin.

"Christian Adams. M'entendez-vous?"

"Yes, I can hear you." My mind is fuzzy, and I wonder if they gave me pain killers. Maybe it's just the lack of oxygen, but I can't think straight, even as they're speaking right at me. The French accent dips out of focus, and the same voice resumes, this time in English.

"Adams, you were in a gas attack, yes?"

"Yes," I murmur. Really, what else could I have been in? These people must be idiots. I laugh, but luckily, it's covered by a hacking cough.

"You were taken in off of the battlefield. You are in a hospital camp."

"Thank you." I shift, grimacing in pain. Tears bead at the edges of my vision, but I refuse to let them fall, pushing them back angrily. I tear my eyes open, looking up into the nurse's own, frightened and brown.

"We… We don't know what it is. The gas, I mean. We can't…" The girl, no older than twenty, bends her head in search of a stray doctor. Her demeanor is stock-still and uncomposed, clearly unprepared and unhappy to be talking to me. Why? The stuttering explanations of one nurse will not make a difference to my condition.

"What does that mean?" I laugh, grimacing at the ache in my throat. The lights are fuzzy again. I can't think properly. "What…"

"I'm so sorry." The nurse, or what I can see of her, looks like she's about to cry. "We don't…" It all morphs to shapes and tones, of pale yellow and medicinal white. My body is wracked by coughs, and I can no longer control my motions. I slump into the depths of myself, barely feeling the spasms and aches. I know that it's getting worse, but I can't feel it anymore. Anymore. It dies away, and comes back in a tide, before siphoning that strength and building up into a wave that crashes against my body, pounding it with flaming pain. I gasp, and I think I cry out Satine's name, sobbing it. Then it all spills away, and my body falls limp. Someone touches the side of my neck with nervous, hasty fingers, before pulling away. I can only sink deeper into the black oblivion that numbly, callously takes me away.

End of Chapter 15

**I really could have written this better. Oh well. When I'm actually to re-write this story, I will. Thanks for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16: Grievance

**Hi everyone, a new chapter, and it's super long! I'm always afraid of this, so I might just put out here: I'm super sorry if I get facts wrong, or if my portrayal of a country that characters might be in are, well, wrong. I try my best when I have the patience. Anyways, if you see anything that would help the credibility of the story, I would love any criticisms! **

**Before I go- thanks for all of the reviews! It was so nice to get them; thanks everyone, for sticking with it! **

Chapter 16: Grievance

**September, 1915**

_Satine_

_The bright summer sunlight glances off of the buildings layering the sides of the street. I peer around, unsure in the new environment. I feel bulky in my travelling layers. For the hundredth time, I glance at the slip of paper gripped in my hands. On it, there is an address._

_It hurts to think of when the letter came. I try not to. I certainly couldn't think of it on the train ride to England, or on the streets, searching for the address written neatly in _his_ handwriting. Before I left, I took a couple of days to pack all of my emotions away in my heart, making sure to get everything out of sight. I knew I could do it; this was what I had been waiting for an entire year. I had been waiting for the letter to come that told me that Christian was dead._

_Of course, I remembered what he had asked of me, on that train platform where the steam swam around our heads and I could still see his face. He had handed me an envelope, with an address of England inside. I had stored it away in an obscure drawer because I felt that it was bad luck to keep it out, that I wouldn't believe that he would come back if I saw it. And then he didn't._

_I have to pause for a moment, closing my eyes against a prickling of tears. I promised myself not to fall apart. I had done enough of that in our apartment, the one that we had shared for the precious amount of time we had together. I can't do it now. I need to make a good impression._

_I laugh bitterly and realize I must look like a madwoman for it, wrapped in garments as I am and carrying suitcases in my gloved hands. I can't help it, though; I had always imagined meeting Christian's parents with him by my side, keeping me from running away. He had told me about them: his conservative father; his worrying, loving mother; his young brother-the family member that made him wince the most to talk about. I tried to pry out the reason why, but he only mumbled a vague reply. Staring into his face, I could see the shame hidden there, of leaving his brother to make his own destiny. I know he would have wanted to make it up to him, if he'd gotten the chance._

_I start up again, searching the streets for the correct address. Over time, the houses fall away to reveal more green, and after a mile or so, I've completely left the crowded housing and am now in a soothing country lane. My feet are blistered and worn, and I feel like I might collapse from the heat, but I know that I cannot stop. My heart twists unpleasantly at the thought of stopping somewhere in a foreign land. _

And what if they push you away? _I wonder, closing my eyes. _You're the courtesan wife of a newly-deceased son, bearing the bad news. There are a hundred reasons why they won't let you stay.

_I can't think of that now, though. I had travelled too far to be stopped now. This had been Christian's last wish, and I'll die trying to succeed._

_It had hurt to leave the apartment in Paris. It had felt like I was fleeing, but from what I wasn't sure. The fighting nearby was a constant threat, but somehow, I couldn't feel the fear that everyone else did. My fear was much more personal, and it had passed like a whisper from that opened letter. So, maybe I feel like I'm fleeing the memories, of Christian and I, living together as a couple. Unconsciously, I twist the cheap metal ring against my woolen glove, remembering when he placed it on my finger. Quickly, I sniff and shake my head, gritting my teeth._

_It's really lovely, all of the green. I've never seen anything like it before. It makes me nervous, all of that open space._

_I hadn't told anyone about the letter, and even if I could muster up the strength to do so, who would I tell? Madame Duvois? Instead, I left a few days after the letter came. I had given myself that much time to grieve in silence, before going to hunt for the slip of paper. I had already paid the rent of our apartment, and my landlady looked a little startled when I told her that I was leaving. She asked me to stay until the end of the month, but I knew that I couldn't. Not with the shadows of Christian haunting the windowsill, the unmade bed, the hum of the fan. _

_That was yesterday. And now I'm in England, with nothing more than a suitcase of clothes, a small purse of money, and Christian's last paycheck._

_I try to take in the huge expanses of green that seem to swim around me, but I can't muster up enough heart for it. I can only walk on, wincing at the pain in my feet. Finally, the address I'm looking for appears around the edge of a hill, and I walk up to it with a muted amount of anxiety. The house is large, in a well-off, inherited kind of way. The land surrounding it stretches for some distance, and there are gardens bespeckling the yards. The house itself is lovely, with two wings connecting at a rather stumpy main house. I'm frightened to walk up; there's family tradition and reverence bathing this place. Nevertheless, I muster up my strength and slowly, respectfully, walk up to the front door._

_I'm not sure if there's anyone watching from the windows as I step up to the front door. Calmly, I take a deep breath, envisioning Christian in my mind. This is his family. This is what he wanted. With these thoughts, I ring the doorbell._

_No one answers at first. I look around at the yard surrounding the house, taking in the well-trimmed flower gardens. Did Mrs. Adams keep them up, or do they have gardeners? I've never had a garden before. The complete expanse of this place is incredible, and I'm sure that when I'm able to enjoy things again, I'll be more amazed. At the moment, I can only think of the events in the very near future, and if I will even get to look on this place with fond eyes at all before being locked out._

_After a few moments, I can hear a clattering of heels from behind the door, probably from a long expanse of hallway. With a house this size, I expect there's a maid working here, but to my slight surprise the woman who opens the door looks to be the woman of the household. She's of medium height, with owlish brown eyes and the exact same hair as Christian's. As soon as I come into view, her eyes flit to my face, and then down over my body. We take each other in at the same time._

_I had picked a modest brown coat to go over a blouse and skirt, with low heels for my long walk. I knew from looking at the women on the street that my ensemble would perfectly fit in with the rest of the working woman there. It was the best choice I could come up with, under the circumstances. I only hoped that Christian's mother wouldn't find anything wrong with it._

_As I wait out on the doorstep, she inspects me carefully. She had aged well, I can see: the wrinkles around her eyes are fair, her frame looks sturdy, and her hair seems to be naturally thick and healthy. Christian probably would have aged as nicely, I thought to myself with a sudden pain to my chest, if he hadn't died._

_Finally, she looks up to my face again. After another brief inspection of my expression, she speaks. "What business do you have here?" I try to read something from her words and face, but she gives nothing away. Knowing that this statement can change the course of events for me from here on out, I'm try to remain calm under her gaze._

"_My name is Satine Adams. My husband, your son Christian, gave me orders to come to you if he died in the war." I don't flinch, even though the words are dead and monotone. Would empathy be best in this situation? I can't feel any, only a black sorrow that took over my heart days ago. I watch as she goes still, her eyes frozen on my face._

_After a moment, she turns away. I think that she's about to close the door on me when she faintly murmurs, "Would you like to come in?" It's a soft, muffled sound, as if she had swallowed cotton and it's blotting her voice. I nod, and step inside, watching as she closes the door behind me._

_We slowly walk down the hallway that she must have come from only moments before. Her motions are as muted as her voice, without any life. Alarm and guilt makes my heart twist, remembering her sturdy movements from before. As we walk, I look at her face again, and now it holds wrinkles that seemed to have been held back by pure will itself, for they now dominate her visage._

_We enter into a neat sitting room, with matching couches and chairs conservatively placed around the area. She takes a seat in a chair near the fireplace, and I sit across from her, folding up my legs to make myself as small as possible._

_She can only look off into space for a while. I know not to bother her; even though I cannot read the expressions in her face, I know that she is grieving. Her silence alone shows me, and the way her eyes squint, and her hands restlessly bunch up the material of her skirt._

_Finally, she speaks. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?"_

"_Satine."_

"_Satine," she murmurs, and I know that she's speculating over the impression behind the name. "And you are from France?"_

"_Yes, Montmartre." I'm reluctant to bring Christian up before she does; luckily, her next few words break the forbidden topic open._

"_How did you meet… Christian, then?"_

"_Through work." There was no point in dancing around the subject. "I was an actress in one of the shows he wrote. We fell in love, married, and moved to Paris."_

_I'm waiting for her to explode, to lash out at me. I'm a gaudy showgirl that stole her son's heart away and is now looking for money from his parents. I know what impression I must give. But she's silent, staring off into space. _

"_He entered the service about a year ago." I'm not sure if I should keep on talking, but she doesn't say anything against it, so I continue. "He left me a note before he left. He said that he didn't want me alone, and that… I should come here."_

_Her gaze slowly turns to mine, and I stare heavily at the anguish evident there. "I don't know why he would tell you to do something like that." I grimace, but she doesn't seem to notice. "He hated it here, said it was too restrained, that it sucked all of the life of him." She turns away. "I don't know why he would want to send you here, after he hated it so much."_

_Her words confuse me, but I don't know how to go on. Gingerly, I ask, "Wouldn't he want to come back to you, at some point?"_

_She laughs softly. "I'm sure you know him more than I do, at this point. I haven't seen him in two years. He was barely a young man when he left us." The soft crescendos of her voice die out, and she repositions herself in the chair she is occupying, folding the material of her dress beneath her. I can clearly see the wrinkles of her skirt where she had been clutching it in her fists, just as clearly as the wrinkles on her face._

"_My other son, Sean, went into the war about a half year ago. They took him, just after he turned eighteen." She sniffs, and pulls a lady's handkerchief out of her pocket. It seems awfully worn for such a rich household. "I had been wondering if they took Christian too. Thank you for telling me."_

"_Is there anything else I can tell you about him?" I feel unsightly in this luxurious, wealthy room, with the gentle peach curtains and the softly spoken women before me. I move closer, but pause, not sure if this is such a good idea. She doesn't seem to notice, however._

"_I'm sorry, I forgot to ask you for your name," I say, another tinge of guilt turning my cheeks a pale pink._

"_Edith. Edith Adams." She sighs, scrunching up the kerchief in her hands. She really is a lovely woman: fine cheekbones; sweeping, golden-brown hair that she's swept up into a modest bun atop her head; crinkled brown eyes with light crow's feet giving them a wizened look. Looking into her face, I suddenly feel a new bout of shame rack my frame- here I am, worrying about what she'll think of me, questioning every word, while she continues on into a spiraling feeling of anguish. She has just been told her son has died, and I am holding her, forcing her to compose herself and complete social etiquette. _

"_I'm sorry, I've lost my manners." He voice is the softest I've ever heard, softer than when Christian whispered soft nothings in my ear at night. "Would you like anything to drink? To eat?"_

"_I myself feel sorry, Mrs. Adams. I… I should go." I quickly exit the lavishly winged chair, biting my lip. Already, I'm beginning to tear up, but I'm able to keep them back, for Mrs. Adams sake. To my surprise, my turn is stopped by a soft hand on my arm. I turn back to face Mrs. Adams, startled at the look in her eyes. If I did not know that she was grieving, I would think there was tenderness in her face._

"_Sit, child, sit." No one has ever called me a child like that before; obediently, I find the seat of my chair again, and sit. "You must be tired, coming all of the way from Paris. Please, rest."_

_I had been fighting back exhaustion for the better part of the day, but I refuse to let it show in my face. "Please, it is no problem for me, Mrs. Adams. I can see that you need time to grieve-"_

"_No, please. If I am left alone to this, I might be eaten alive." She laughs softy, then solemnly sniffs into her kerchief. I suddenly feel the strongest amount of awe for the strong woman before me, and I move closer._

"_I will stay," I murmur simply. She looks into my face, and I can see the barest traces of liquid at the sides of her crinkled eyes. She takes my hand in her own from where it rests on the couch arm, and as I look up into her face with shock, she smiles. _

_After some time, we continue to talk. "So, Satine," Mrs. Adams says, before pausing, a strained look overcoming her features. "That's a show name, isn't it?"_

"_Yes, but I've had it since before I can remember." There, my history is out in the open. Mrs. Adams looks to be intelligent enough to figure out the implications of such a situation; indeed, at my words, she turns her face to look at the sofa. I bite my lip and close my eyes, waiting for the attack, or the repulsion. Instead, I faintly feel the soft circles that her thumb makes against the palm of my hand, a motherly stroke. The feeling makes me relax, in a way that I've never felt before, even with Christian. I look back to her face._

"_Satine seems like such a showy name. Do you ever get tired of it?" I confusedly look at her, wondering at what she is getting at. "What I mean to say is, have you ever wanted to have a different one?"_

"_I've never thought about it." I muse on the thought of it, letting the relief slowly sink in that we were talking about such a mundane topic. "Everyone called me Satine. Christian did." I wince at the mention, but the soft circles against my palm never cease. _

"_I don't know if I'm entirely fine with the name Satine. I don't think you look like a Satine to me." She stares up into my face, and I'm surprised to see that she actually appears to be calculating. "Although, I never can tell with these things. I can continue to call you Satine. But maybe I could call you Attie?"_

_The name sounds extremely rough and childish in my mind. I imagine a little village girl with twigs in her hair, and I keep myself from wincing. But, then I see the child's mother coming up beside her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek and removing the brambles from the girl's curls. _

_I smile. "Attie would be wonderful, Mrs. Adams."_

_Please, call me Mother. I never got to have a little girl." She stares fondly into my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I can imagine what it's like to have a mother. "Now then, Attie. Let's get to you set up in a guest bedroom, shall we?"_

_End of Chapter 16_

**So, there you have it. How do people feel about the name Attie? I'm not so sure about it, but maybe it'll grow on me… We'll see.**

**I won't be extremely mean. I'm going to bring out the next chapter soon, so as to put you guys out of your misery. *hint hint* Now, anyone up for some reviews? :D**


	17. Chapter 17: Pale Alabaster

**Hi, everyone! I hope you're proud of me, for getting this out so quickly! :D **

**So, RavenclawRebel suggested that Christian come back as a zombie in this chapter, which was actually pretty tempting. But instead, I give you this. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 17: Pale Alabaster

Christian

Everything fazes before my vision at first. They come in a series of colors. Then, after I blink several times, it starts to mold together, and I can feel the solid dirt ground beneath me. _That smell… _Its foul scent burns my nostrils. I gasp out a breath, feeling my back hitch beneath me. Suddenly, I can move my hands, and I roll over from my back position, planting them on the ground and retching. After a moment, I'm too weak to move, and I can only roll back over, gasping in pain. My lungs are on fire.

"H…Help!" I yell, as loud as I can, feeling a daze of pain trying to take over my mind. It nearly knocks me out, a punch that sends me reeling. _But I can speak! _I begin to choke on the pain, gasping, my eyes wide. No… My field of vision is shrinking, tunneling in around me. But I'm able to hear the footsteps from a distance, able to feel the arms around me, dragging me. There are voices.

After some moments, I'm drawn up to a bed, and the hands lay me out flat upon it, propping my head up with a pillow. The anxiety clenching my heart dissipates a bit, and I'm able to breathe more deeply with the bolstering pillow. I open my eyes to see several men standing around me, in white uniforms of bleached cotton.

"Sir, can you tell us your name?"

I blink at them, breathing shallowly. Slowly, I gasp out the words. "Adams, Christian."

I can hear them murmuring, and even as I start to fade out, I try to make out their words. "His papers… They must have burned them already…"

_My papers? Burned? Why… _I can barely think at all now, but a sudden final shock of fear runs through my system. Hurriedly, I reach up to my breast pocket, alarmed at how heavy and dead my arms feel. The men say something to me when they notice what I'm doing, but I can't hear them anymore; the sleep and fatigue is weighing on me too heavily. But I can still feel for the envelope in my pocket, and relief floods my body as I feel the worn paper beneath my fingers. I shakingly pull it out, staring up into the men's faces.

"Please…. Don't… Burn this…." They start talking to me, but the shot of fear had been the only thing keeping me awake; now, I can only fall back onto my pillow, burrowing into the warm linen smell and trying to obstruct that scent of dead, decaying bodies from before.

* * *

When I wake up again, this time I'm surrounded by florescent lights. The strong glow nearly burns my eyes the first time I open them. It takes a moment before I'm able to look around at my surroundings.

Everything is white: the walls, the floors, the sheets, the curtains surrounding my bed. When I look down, I can see that I've been bandaged up, and my pale hand rests upon cotton sheets. I wonder if I've died, but the pain in my throat tells me that there's more to the story.

After several moments, I begin to hear sounds again, like the hum of fans above my head and the buzz of activity behind my curtain. When I look around, I can see a small table by my bedside, and I numbly lift my hand to reach out to it, grasping at thin air. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, suddenly feeling dizzy from the lights.

I can hear a set of steps approaching my bed, and I pull my hand back, staring expectantly at the curtains. Sure enough, they're pulled back a moment later by a young woman in her twenties. She's parched in white, from the white nurse's cap atop her brown curls, to her outfit that's partially obstructed from my view by the bed. She's pretty, in a country girl kind of way: the soft rouge around her cheeks; the stray curl pinned against her neck; the faint array of freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose. Upon looking at my opened eyes, she smiles, a friendly expression.

"Hello there! Goodness, you were asleep for some time." Her smile is genuine and bright, as if an inner sun has lit up inside of her. I can't help but smile back, even when it hurts to do so. She holds an English country accent, and the remembrance of home makes my heart lighten even more.

"Hello. How did I get here?" I'm content to simply look up to her, waiting passively for her answer rather than demanding one. I can faintly remember an urgent fear the last time I was awake, but ever since I woke up, I can only feel peace, at least for the moment, with the faintest hint of curiosity.

"Well-" she consults a sheet that is pinned against my bed, smiling faintly. "You had quite a brush with death, Christian. Someone collected a bad pulse off of you, and you'd been transported to the back lines, to be buried. Luckily, you woke up in time for someone to notice! Then you came here." She looks up, and smiles. "You seem to be one of the few survivors of the gas attack, Christian. It's something to be proud of."

The influx of information makes my head hurt. A shiver runs down my spine at the mention of "buried", but somehow her friendly voice keeps it at bay; it must be something she had been taught when dealing with patients. The news on my transportation was brought in gradually, while I was still asserting that my papers must have burned because of this assumed death.

"Well! I don't want to burden you with too much information." Her face is set in a permanent, friendly smile. I grin back, feeling genuine amiability towards the girl. Her composure and mannerisms are sweet and kind, and, for this moment at least, I'm able to be drawn out of the war, back into the enveloping world of friends.

"Thank you, Nurse…" I try to lean forward, but wince at a pain I hadn't noticed before along my spine. She leans forward, worry etching her face, but pulls back when she sees me lean back on my pillow. Upon my safe return, she giggles.

"Clarke. Nurse Clarke." I smile back, the common surname again reminding me of my old home. She turns quickly, clipping the sheet back against the board against my bed. When she looks up, her face is drawn up in an attempt at motherly attention, but her young face doesn't quite pull it off. "Now get some rest, okay? We need you to heal up."

"So, does that mean-" I shift, wincing slightly, while trying to come up with the words on my dry tongue. "Will I recover?"

Her face darkens slightly, and my heart plummets. "The gas, whatever it was, took over your lungs- that's why you may have trouble breathing. We can't find a way to cure that yet." A look of such unshielded sadness overtakes her features that I wish I hadn't said anything, but she goes on. "However, you should recover from it. You may never be able to breathe the way you used to, but you will live."

The news slowly creeps into my understanding. Up until this point, I hadn't known I had any expectations, but now I know that they hadn't been good. The idea that I would recover at all- from being nearly dead- shocks me. Looking up into the nurse's face, I can see that she's urgently waiting for my impression of the events, and I'm reminded again of the youthfulness of her face. How long has she been a nurse? A couple of months? Am I her first war victim? I smile resurgently, and she responds with one of her own.

"That's wonderful news. Thank you."

"Well, I'm glad to be the bearer of good news!" Her face becomes lively once more, and she turns away again. She's pulling on the curtain when another, more urgent question explodes into my memory.

"Wait!" I say sharply, and she pauses, alarm clear in her face. "Did… Did anything come with me? An envelope?"

A troubled look comes over her face. "No, I don't believe so. I can check with some of the nurses, but I don't think anything came with you besides your name. I'm sorry." She gives me a consolatory look before finishing closing the curtains. I can only blink, stunned at the news, feeling my heart squeeze painfully. _Her picture. _The one I had been keeping safe in my pocket without taking it out for several months, for fear of damaging it. _It's gone. _

The image of Satine is blurry in my mind, and I blink back anguished tears. I can't lose her, not now.

_End of Chapter 17_

**Ha HA! I'm not so mean, am I? Review, and I'll try to bring out another chapter by the end of the week! :) **


	18. Chapter 18: Confrontation

**A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry for yet another long wait.**

**A very nice reviewer pointed out that Christian's last name is JAMES. So, for past readers, I'll go back and change the name difference after putting this out. For readers who are going to read this and wonder what on earth I'm talking about, never mind. :) **

Chapter 18: Confrontation

_Satine_

_Edith leads me to a pleasantly bland room, with pale peach curtains, furniture, and walls. If ever a room were to be labeled as both trim and cozy, this would be the one. I glance at it with mild distraction, letting the sight of it encode into my memories without truly taking it in. Mrs. James is all bustle now, and I get the feeling that this is exactly what she needs: busywork, to occupy her thoughts. _

_"Here's the guest room, dear. I can get you clean sheets soon enough." Her gaze wanders, and for a moment she's looking out of the window, as if watching for something. Then her gaze returns, and my heart lightens with the strength behind her smile._

_"Please make yourself at home. We don't have a maid right now- old one left, I'm afraid. But don't hesitate to ask me for anything you need." Her smile is gentle, and I can easily imagine what it must have been like growing up with her. _

_"Thank you, Edith." I try to return this foreign, gentle smile. It hurts me to acknowledge that most of my past experiences with smiling was much more exuberant and showy; here, I have to show the kind that I had never given to anyone besides Christian._

_"Think nothing of it. You must be tired. Or are you hungry? I can make you something, if you like…"_

_"Oh no, a bed sounds wonderful right now." This time, I try for an energetic smile, and hope that it works. I'm also hoping that my accent is not harming my words; although I speak English fine, the stress is making some of my words blend together._

_"Alright then. Please call if you need anything." Smiling gently, Edith makes her way to the door. "I'll be back with the clean sheets shortly."_

_As the door closes, I take another look around the room, illuminated by several hanging lamps. Unconsciously, as if something draws me to it, I walk over to a chest of drawers, glancing at the various knickknacks adorning its surface. There are the usual bottles and vases and paperweights, and of course there are picture frames. They look to have no specific rhyme or reason, and yet still hold a certain amount of quiet, dignified regality to them. The first several are of long-dead relatives with stern faces. Further on, there is a picture of a wedded couple, the woman in bridal white, the man's suit a trim black. I can only assume that it's Mr. and Mrs. James. _

_Next in the procession are photographs of children. A baby boy, clearly no more than a few months old, stares up out of a taken portrait with a gummy smile. It's hard to tell in the grainy black and white photograph, but I am almost positive that it's Christian, with his dark brown locks. The next few photographs confirm my suspicion, as the child grows up to reveal Christian's beautiful features and smile. These sides of Christian are exhilaratingly new; here, a photograph taken at around six, with a striped shirt, green shorts, and scrapes all over his knees; next, one at around nine, with some kind of academic merit around his neck, beaming at the camera. _

_The next portrait causes a loving smile to grow on my face. It's a ten-year-old Christian, baby fat gone and face revealing heartbreakingly-familiar features. On his lap sits a laughing baby, young, with a blue bonnet on its head. I can only assume that it's Christian's younger brother, Sean, the one he never really told me about. The next few show Sean growing up. I focus on his features, watching his rapid growth through the pictures. _

_The last portrait is the one that causes me to pause the longest. It's Christian, but somehow, not the Christian I know, even though it looks to be taken only a short time before he came to France. It's a family picture, but Christian's face, so full of life and exhilaration, pulls my eyes to his immediately. I recognize the dreamy, romantic look to his features already, causing me to laugh softly. I stop when I realize that I hadn't seen that look since well before he left; the recognition comes only from past memories of him and I at the Moulin Rouge. The war had made him bitter long before he was enlisted. I feel something wretched stirring within me when I fathom that he probably died upset._

_Stirring from my thoughts, I turn to walk to the bedside, trailing my hand against the bed sheets. Far too nice and proper for a courtesan from Paris. Sighing, I sit gingerly on the side, feeling the weighty down beneath me. I stare up silently at the ceiling._

I'm not sure if I can do this without you, Christian.

* * *

_When I wake up, it's twilight outside of my window. For a moment, I'm just disoriented enough to wonder where I am, but sleepy enough to let it pass for several moments. Then, I remember, and the pain comes back once more. Slowly, I get up, realizing with chagrin that I had fallen asleep in my travelling clothes; they were now rumpled and creased. I thought briefly of changing clothes from the suitcase beside my bed, but decided against it, moving instead to the door. Opening it, I then began to walk down the long hallway, following the sound of movement._

_At the end of the hallway, I turned into the living area that Mrs. James and I had been speaking in. Now, however, there was another figure in the room- a man with a large white beard and dressed in a trim black suit. On my appearance in the room, he turned, eyebrows raised. I stopped as well, suddenly terrified as to how I could possibly explain myself to the man before me. Luckily, it was at this time that Mrs. James entered from another room, rubbing her hands with a towel. Upon seeing me, her face broke into a small smile, reassuring but strained._

_"Oh, Attie! You're awake!" When she gets closer, I can see that the strain is not so much because of my presence, but because of the presence of the man. Glancing at his face, I feel prickles of sweat bead on my forehead, and a shiver overtakes my body. His eyes are sharp and penetrating, making me feel small in my own skin. Looking at his face, I cannot see any aspect that is alike to Christians'. _

_"Alfred, I'd like you to meet Attie. As I was telling you, she was very tired from her long journey from France, so I let her sleep." Mrs. James was timid under the man's gaze; her eyes glanced around the room quickly, before returning to her husband's face. "She's a very nice girl."_

_"Edith tells me you were my oldest son's lover." The man's voice is low and grating._

_"Wife, darling. She is… was his wife."_

_"And you bring news of his death." Mr. James seemed to ignore his wife's interjection, staring pointedly at me. "Pray tell me, what was your profession before ensnaring my son?"_

_"Alfred!" I shivered under the man's harsh gaze and biting words. However, I was still able to answer him, even though my head was lowered._

_"I was a courtesan, sir."_

_I heard a scoff. "I guessed it from your look. I'm surprised that my son could have hired a courtesan, what with his lack of money and work skills."_

_"He didn't hire me." I raised my head, feeling the beginnings of painful tears smarting at the sides of my eyes. "He never hired me. We met through work." The tears, however, are not sad, but bitingly angry. _

_The man continued to glare, and now his malice and resentment were clear in his face. "Then what were you after, then? My son was poor. Did he tell you about his parents? Is that why you married him?" _

_"No!" I pulled my head up to look him in the eye, but my heart hammered at how my exclamation rang in the empty house. I know what I needed to say, but it was still difficult to get the words out of my mouth, as if the air was pressing down on my throat. "We married for love."_

_Mr. James laughed sharply, and it sounded more pained than he probably would have liked to let on. "Love! That is what my son was always talking about before he left. I'm glad at least that he was able to find someone who shared his sentiments." He passed an angry hand over his face. "Miss 'Attie', you may have grown up with these notions of love, but it is not the same here. Your words are meaningless to me. All I see before me-" he motioned at my frame- "is a loose French woman looking for shelter in a world that is crumbling around us." His eyes held no sympathy, only a deep regret. I felt the tears prickle into small beads against my eyelashes. I heard him turn away, but I held up my hand, willing my voice to stay calm and composed._

_"Please, Mr. James. I never wished to come here. Christian never had any intention on coming back here when he was alive." Beside me, I can hear Mrs. Adams start to cry. "Before he left, he made me promise that I would come here if he didn't come back. I would give my life to not be standing here right now." _

_I looked up to Mr. James, but he didn't respond. I went on. "Your son… was a good man, Mr. James. I did not grow up with these ideas of love, as you said. It was your son who gave these ideas to me. And I know that-" I took a breath, wincing as a tear trickled down my cheek. "I know that speaking of these things seem extremely trivial in a time like this, and that I seem like a woman who is only grasping at straws. And maybe I am." I chuckle bitterly, hating the wetness in my throat. "But not for shelter. I'm grasping for the chance that I can do something for Christian's spirit, even if he is gone. I'm not a religious woman, but I can't go on if I don't do the one thing Christian asked of me." I cough, looking away. The room is silent. My heart, or what's left of it, breaks a little more._

_It's several moments before anyone speaks. It's Mr. James. "You're right. Your words don't mean the same things here." I look up into his face, wishing to be anywhere but here. "But honor _is _a high priority here. If you were, as you say, married to my son, then we will let you stay here." He turned away. I could hardly believe my ears. Mrs. James smiled at me, and I realized that the trial was over; I had won. I would be staying._

_"Thank you, sir." He didn't respond, but only walked down the hallway I had just exited, slowly, and like the old man I now realized him to be. Under the heat of his glare, I had not noticed his age. Turning back to Mrs. James, I smiled as she drew me close to her, squeezing gently. _

_"Come, sweet. You must be hungry." She led me away to the kitchen._

_Later that night, when I passed the master bedroom on the way to my own, I could hear Mr. James' soft crying from within._

_End of Chapter 18 _


	19. Chapter 19: Snippets

Chapter 19: Snippets

* * *

_Satine_

_ I wake up in a cold sweat. _It's that dream again.

_ Every night for the past week, I have dreamt that I am seeing Christian die in front of me. I don't know if it is because my mind has gotten a chance to work out the actual fact of his death or that I am surrounded by a house that aches of him, but since I have entered the house, his pained face appears every time I close my eyes. _

_ And it's not always the same way, either. Sometimes I see his face contorting as he's shot full of holes; sometimes I see him as a little boy, falling into a river current and being swept away; sometimes he is in front of me, right as we are exiting from the church where we were married, and he gets hit by a speeding car. The war dreams are more fuzzy and surreal, distanced by my ignorance in the war zone. But the deaths in his childhood are far clearer than I would believe or wish; it's as if I knew him from that time, the details that I am able to recall in my dream of the little boy running in terror from a savage wild dog. It's just my mind filling in the blanks, I tell myself, but almost every night I see the various faces of Christian that I stare at in the photographs that are scattered around the house. At every turn, I can only think of him._

_ In the hours of light, however, I can focus on reality. There is much to be done with the servants gone and the James's looking after themselves. I try to be as productive as I can, because I know how my presence as a grieving widow can only aggravate their suffering. Instead, I pursue a life of work and simplicity, cooking, cleaning, and washing up around the house. It's only at night that I fall into myself all over again. _

_ Mrs. James' kind spirit is a miracle in itself. Without her, I cannot begin to comprehend what I would have done with myself for even the short period of time that I have been here. From the moment I get up to the moment I return to my room, tired and exhausted, she has somehow been able to find something for me to do. We both understand how staying busy waylays the pain of a sorrowed mind. I had never expected such diligence and perseverance from a woman from the higher classes, but Mrs. James has shown herself to be a fighter and more, keeping her wits about her while the war reports rush in and her home shifts into a future war hospital. In mere months, the house that I have learned to call home will soon be housing soldiers from the French front, and I in turn will be able to look after those who had suffered as Christian had. My heart trembles at the idea that I might meet some of those who knew Christian, and I am afraid; however, the idea of isolating myself from the reality of my war-torn world scares me more .I am happy that I will be able to help out in the effort in any way that I can._

* * *

Christian

I wake up in a cold sweat. _It's that dream again._

Under the sounds of my heavy breathing, I can hear the ever-present humming of the infirmary and the muffled taps of nurse's feet. Somewhere further down, there's a man moaning quietly. It's been the same ever since I came, days that I haven't kept track of. White, white, white. Bareness and solitude. I turn on my side, feeling the starch beneath my fingertips and cheek. My throat still aches, but the monotony and boredom are what really plague me. I close my eyes again.

Satine is before me, radiant as ever. We're up on the roof of her elephant. Every pore of me aches to touch her, but I'm stopped by the look in her eyes- a deadness, an inner hatred, I can't tell which. Before I might have let it go, walked forward to take her hand- I can fix her eyes, her beautiful eyes. But in the gaudy lights of the Moulin, staring at her face, I'm overcome by self-doubt. _I can't save her. _I moan quietly, keeping my eyes tight. A nightmare, yes, but now I don't know if it's a reality- if I had taken Satine into a world where I could no longer save her.

"Christian? Is everything alright?" I open my eyes. Nurse Clarke has drawn back the curtains and is peering at me with innocent eyes. I stretch myself out from the curled position that I had unwittingly pulled myself into, giving her a weak smile.

"Yes. Just a bad dream." She nods, appeased, but continues to stand before my bed. I look up to her questioningly, and she blushes lightly.

"Can I… Do you need anything to eat?" She bites the side of her lip. I shake my head; my sleep has only left my stomach more unsettled then it is usually.

"No, thank you."

"Well, you know if there's anything you need, you can call out." She smiles, showing off the dimples on either side of her mouth. I nod in thanks, feeling lucky that I had found a friend in this foreign hospital. She leaves, and I'm left in silence, staring out at the infirmary floor around me. I'm one of the earliest ones up; most of the other curtains are still closed, waiting to be opened by the nurses with a smile and food. I had made friends with those around me, and their company helps to lighten my swollen sadness. Still, it doesn't help to lighten my too-real dreams.

I'm better off than a lot of people here. I'm not the only one who's been gassed, and many can barely breathe, fighting for each second. Others have missing limbs, smashed-in skulls, and illnesses that leave them retching any time they wake up. I now can appreciate the wonder of being completely healthy, looking at these people and facing my own breathing problems.

I'll never be the same- I know this. But I hope, with all of my heart, that Satine has not suffered as much as I.

* * *

_Satine_

_ We got our first batch of soldiers yesterday. I haven't slept yet, running from one area of the house to another, bringing water, fresh linen, and food to the wounded. They had come in Parisian taxi cabs, the cabs enlisted into the war and splattered with mud and dried blood. There hadn't been enough time yet for the takeover of the James' mansion to truly set in, but while running from soldier to soldier, it was still unbelievable to see the rooms' floors covered in wounded bodies, the walls soaked with the moans of the wounded. _

_ Finally I'm reprieved, one of the volunteers that have come for the effort gently leading me to the side and suggesting that I get some sleep. I know that I look like a wreck; my lack of sleep is not helping my mind, and I tremble, staring around at the pain and suffering that's choking every occupant in the room. I nod, turning to stumble down the hallway that leads to my room. _

_On the way, I spot Mr. James, resting against a wall with pain in his eyes. I know that he has not rested either. Quietly, I take him by the hand, smiling gently and leading him with me down the hall and to his room. He nods his thanks, walking solemnly to his room with a bowed head. Not for the first time, tears start to smart around my eyes, and I blink quickly. I leave the doorway, dreaming of my bed._

_When I'm in it, however, my eyes remain open. I brush my hands through my hair, groaning. My body feels like I have just run for ten hours, and yet I can't sleep. I turn on my side, closing my eyes for a second before jerking them open, terrified of the image that flashed before my eyes._

_It's from another dream, just as realistic as the others. I had it l two nights ago, and Mrs. James had to enter my room and shake me awake from my sobbing. The night had begun with the normal images of Christian's face scrunched up in pain, yelling out for me. But the dream that left me crying was different- Christian was there, but so was a child, giggling in his arms. He's bending down to kiss it repeatedly on the cheeks, looking not much older than a child himself. He looks up to me with his brightest expression, pure joy floating around him in a halo. Just as he's holding the child out to me, he's shot full of holes, and I awaken to screams. _

_Christian's death is no longer new to me- it's the presence of the child that causes me to gasp and curl in pain, feeling that something inexplicably important has just been removed from my body. The way he held it, it was as if it was a gift to me, his final present. I reach out, but there's nothing on the bed beside me, and I let hot tears run down my cheeks and into my hair. Staying as quiet as possible, I gasp out sobs, regretting the presence of the child that I never had._

* * *

Christian

We got another batch of soldiers yesterday. More gas attacks, but more survivors as well- the lucky few who were able to withstand the bitter gas that entered and tore up their throats. Only the ones who had a chance were removed to this hospital on the outskirts. I not only had a chance, but seemed to be recovering as well. Never fully, but it was easier to breathe again.

I'm able to walk around the floor, which is a sure sign that I'll probably be leaving soon, seeing as the gas was my only injury. I feel blessed that I'm mobile, unlike some of the residents that cannot move. I visit them at their bedsides, cheering them up as best I can with my stories and laughter. It's hard to believe that laughter can be infectious in a hospital, but when I look into yet another broken gaze, there's always that flint of humanity demanding entertainment, a reprieve from the boredom of an infirmary.

The nurses like me as well. I fear that I'm too late to save their innocence from the presence of war, but giving them a chance to laugh (as long as no superiors are around) gives them what I believe to be a good deal of help. They're children, really, from homes and cities that I will probably never visit, from families and loved ones that I will never meet. Still, I catch glimpses in glancing in their eyes, at their smiles, at their hair and their teeth and their cheeks- they're all stories.

Nurse Clarke is often around when I tell stories. I hate to think that she gets in trouble for her visits, but she never seems to show any wish to depart when I ask her about it. Like the other nurses, she often has to put up with the occasional patient pointing sly glances at her backside, or taking her hand when she gives them their trays, which she laughs away good-naturedly. However, I appear to be the only one she's ever nervous around, for a reason that I'm not really ready to imagine. My manner towards her is friendly, but distanced as much as possible to keep from being impolite.

One night, while the nurses were making their final rounds before lights out, one of my neighbors posed the question of my wedding band. Nurse Clarke paused in her circulation to listen, which I took in but chose not to think further on.

"So you have someone waiting at home?" The question was quiet. My neighbor had had his upper chest blown off with an explosion, and his throat, nearly exposed, couldn't handle much pressure. I smiled reflexively, toying with the ring.

"Yes. We hadn't been married long before the war broke out." Speaking about Satine helped me in a way that nothing else could, filling me with an ecstatic feeling of peace and comfort. Around me, my neighbors nodded in sympathy.

"Did you meet her in Paris?" It was another man, Stephen, this time. I had already told them countless stories of my escapades throughout Montmartre, earning gasps from the mild-mannered nurses who listened in.

"Yes. Surprising circumstances to find a wife, but there you go." I earned a chuckle from the crowd.

"Knock her up, did ya?" Another chuckle; I shook my head.

"No, no children." I smiled, but it strayed downward as the idea of an infant in my arms permeated my thoughts. Something swelled within me, choking off any kind of response. Thankfully they were still talking.

"I got a wife. A right nag she is, too." He shook his head as the others laughed. "If I come home, she'll probably yell at me about being late, as usual."

"I have a girl," the man with the blown-out chest said. The other voices lower in order to hear his quiet, breathy speech. "Don't… don't know how she'll look at me now, though." He began to laugh hoarsely, breaking into a cough half way through. Nurse Clarke is quickly by his side, encouraging him to settle down and breathe slowly. His smile remains, though.

"Hey, hey, at least you have someone," one of the younger men pipes up. "It'll be trouble finding a girl nowadays, I'll tell you what. You're lucky to've found one who can at least stand your presence." That got a big laugh from the audience.

"I wonder…" The man with the blown-out chest spoke again, and the room quieted. "If she's… safe." There is a silence, as the other men look down and wonder the same thing.

"That's what I've been thinking about ever since I left her side," Christian murmured. The room is quiet, until the nurses get up and start turning off lights and putting the weaker soldiers to bed. Slumped in the darkness, my heart a mess, I'm thankful that I've at least held onto the ring.

* * *

_Satine_

"_Come on, darling. Not much farther."_

_I nod, smiling happily. His face is bright in the darkness, guiding me forward. I don't know where we are, but I don't care either, just as long as he's really here before me. He beckons me closer, and I follow._

_I reach out to Christian to grasp his hand, and just as I do I feel water around my feet. He's leading me into a river, it seems like. He's still smiling, but now he's looking worried, as if we're about to be late to wherever he's leading me._

"_Hurry, Satine. Just a little farther."_

_I'm still willing, but the water's reaching up to soak my clothes, clinging to my legs and hips. I gasp at the cold, and suddenly it doesn't feel right at all. Christian's hazy in front of me, and he gives a shout, grabbing my hand._

"_No, no darling, hold my hand… Hold on…." Suddenly, with a gasp, he sinks down below the surface of the water, and I realize that I'm out back in the James' lake, thrashing to keep myself above water._

_I gasp, sinking for a second before thrusting myself back up to the surface. I've never swum before, and I doubt that I can do it now. Already, I'm chilled to the bone and finding it hard to breathe, sinking again beneath the surface. _

_When I reemerge, I thrust out with my arms, weakly propelling myself towards where I believe the shore to be. It's so dark, and if adrenalin wasn't coursing through my veins, I would never find the strength to even keep myself above the water. As it is, my attempts are weak, and I can hardly keep myself from sinking again._

"_C-C-Christian," I gasp through cold lips. "H-Help me…" _

_I throw my arms out, but there's no one there in the water. I knew that it was a dream the moment that I knew I was in the lake. I knew this. I thrust up, trying to see the shore, see where I'm going. Panic has engulfed me to a point that I can no longer feel the cold. _

_There's something beneath my feet. I kick forward, propelling myself onto land. Gasping, I pull myself out of the water, shivering and shaking with panic and cold. I sink onto the sandy bank, panting heavily, and close my eyes. _

_It's only when I make the shaky efforts to sit up that I realize that my ring is missing. I stare dumbly at my finger, hardly believing that it's gone. Quietly, I look up at the house, still light from the wings holding the wounded soldiers, and then at the stars above. I don't cry, because I've cried far too much already. Dawn is breaking by the time I get up._

* * *

Christian

Dawn is breaking when I get up. My sleep was restless, and I'm haunted by an image of Satine in pain from the night before. Today's the day that I leave the hospital, but there is no bag by my bedside; there's nothing to pack. The envelope full of letters and Satine's picture is gone, so there's really nothing that I have that's really mine anymore. I look around the room at the drawn curtains for the last time.

Nurse Clarke is the one to show me off. I don't have a clue as to where they'll send me, but I know that I'm not going home just yet. She's smiling but quiet as she leads me through the hospital, its walls and floors just as white as the floor that I had stayed in. Even walking takes a toll on me; by the time we reach the entrance, my breaths are coming out in pants.

There are other soldiers waiting as well, and their presence masks mine. Nurse Clarke gives me a final once-over, smiling weakly. She's grown while I've been here, and I tell her so, widening her smile.

"I'm trying. It's the least I can do, you know?" She laughs quietly, looking to the side. After a moment, she reaches into a pocket of her starched dress, her face solemn. She pulls out a clean envelope, handing it to me. When I open it, I see a batch of folded letters, along with a worn-through photograph.

"I'm sorry, Christian. I…" She clasps her hands in front of her, staring down with tears in her eyes. There's a shout from the front, and the other soldiers begin to head out, walking towards the transportation outside. I take Nurse Clarke's hand, making her jump.

"Thank you for your service," I say earnestly. She smiles, tears still dotting her eyelashes. "And you will have someone of your own, soon." I lean forward to kiss her on the cheek, giving her a final smile before leaving with the rest. Immediately, I become one of a crowd, heading off to a new location with the all-too-familiar stench of death. I grasp the envelope tightly in my hands, and sigh, taking in the air of a new day.

* * *

**Thank you for all of those who have kept up with the story! Seeing as it's summer, I'll have a lot more time to write. I hope to finish this story soon (as if you haven't heard that before). Tell me what you think, what I can improve on! I hope to get the next chapter out soon!**


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